Midlife crisis? Is there really such a thing?


    I always imagined it happening around the age of fifty and it entailing a sports car, Botox, and


    perhaps a mild fetish for gay porn. Never in my wildest dreams did I think it would go down like this at


    the tender age of twenty-five.


    I had it all. Life as I knew it was perfect. I had my high school sweetheart Liam, a dream job at the


    auctioneers, and a deposit saved for our very first home together.


    It’s funny, you know. They always say that you don’t know what you have got until its gone. With me it


    was the exact opposite. I knew what I was missing. I knew my heart yearned for a man that I had never


    met.


    I wanted him.


    To melt when he looked at me.


    To catch on fire when he touched me.


    I could see it so clearly in my mind and I could feel the heat when I was alone in my bed.


    I wanted the fairy tale.


    How can you want someone so desperately, when ording to everyone else you are already living


    the dream?


    I had a perfect man-a perfect, reliable man-but my life was empty.


    My soul was dying day by day.


    Like a lost sheep, I would cry myself to sleep at night, knowing what I was missing-knowing that he


    was waiting for me-yet hating myself for feeling this way.


    I  didn’t  know  who  I  was  searching  for,  I  only  knew  he  was  in  London.  He  had  to  be  in  London


    because he wasn’t anywhere I had been before and London had been at the forefront of my mind for the


    longest time.


    Then, on one fateful day, it began… and my life changed.


    The day when I met him.


    I  didn’t  exactly  meet  him,  but  I  talked  to  him.  I  wrote  to  him,  to  be  exact.  When  working  at  the


    auctioneers, mypany had acquired art. We sent it over to London to be auctioned off, knowing that


    there  were  collectors  over  there  that  were  interested  in  this  particr  artist.  We  would  fetch  a  much


    higher price than here in Australia. My job description was to liaise with the art department from the


    auction house to ensure that the transfer ran smoothly.


    He-also known as Mark White-was head of marketing for Chesters in London. We spoke by email


    every day for three weeks. At first our conversation was work rted, slowly moving onto the weather


    and polite chitchat. But then one Monday, a day that I will never forget because it is burned into my damnMaterial ? of N?velDrama.Org.


    brain, everything changed.


    I had returned back to work after a particrly boring weekend with Liam; one where we didn’t go


    out because we were saving. Liam didn’t like to waste money so we never did much. We had fallen into


    routine, and whether it wasziness,cency, or just damn stupidity on both of our parts, the cracks


    in our rtionship had begun to show without us realizing it.


    We were both responsible for the other’s boredom but we didn’t know how to pull each other out of


    the funk.


    That was our life.


    That was what we did-our routine.


    How do you change something when it’s the only thing you know?


    And, fuck, if I couldn’t make it work with Liam who I knew was a good man, what chance did I have


    with aplete stranger?


    Anyway… back to the story.


    That morning my email pinged and it was Mark, I smile as I remember it like yesterday.


    Good Morning, Emerson.


    My  eyes  darted  guiltily  around  the  office  to  see  if  anyone  knew  what  I  was  doing,  and  I  smiled


    mischievously while I typed back.


    Good Morning, Mark.


    An email immediately bounced back.


    How was your weekend?


    I replied.


    Extremely dull. How was yours?


    He typed back.


    I nearly emailed you on the weekend to say hi.


    I wish.


    You should have. It would have brightened my day.


    And he replied.


    What are you wearing?


    Four  words,  four  stupid  words,  and  my  whole  life  changed.  What  are  you  wearing?  I  instantly


    became ufortable and nervously found a way to get offline. I knew it was wrong. I had a perfect


    boyfriend for Christ’s sake, even if I did find myself constantly thinking about Mark. His life was fun,


    vibrant, unpredictable, and here I was living the life of a sixty-year-old. A deep, sinister sadness fell over


    me and I realized I missed hearing about his life, his dates, and the fun he was having when I wasn’t


    speaking to him. Then, after two days of radio silence, I did the unthinkable. I messaged him back and told


    him exactly what I was wearing. The lines quickly became blurred. We started messaging each other at all


    hours of the day, talking about everything but art rted topics. I would even hide in the bathroom at work


    to converse with him.