Standing there in his house, I was overcome by an urgent need to flee. I stood rooted in the entryway, letting my gaze roam from object to object. Two umbrellas hanging from pegs on the wall. Pairs of shoes scattered on the floor. A cushioned bench. A basket of books. Were they his books? I strained my eyes to read the spines from where I was standing.

I was so fixated on taking in the room that I didn’t notice her walking up right in front of me.

“Thank you so much for coming,” she said. Everything was muddy at that moment and I couldn’t hear the qualities of her voice. I kept my gaze downward and stared at her legs, which were bare and pale. Her black dress flared out but stopped short just before her knees.

“Thank you,” I choked out, unsure of what to say.

“Please, come in,” she said. My brain was trying to recalibrate the sound of her voice, which sounded muted and faraway. Was it me or was it her?

“Yes,” I nodded feebly and slipped out of my heels. I bent over to hook my fingers through the straps and put them neatly beside the basket of books. One Hundred Years of Solitude. That was an Art book if I ever saw one. I stood back up and was startled, finding myself looking straight into her face.

Maybe it was my own vanity, but I had imagined her to look like myself, but world-weary and haggard. Instead of bright, vital beauty, I convinced myself that she must have just traces of long forgotten beauty etched into her face. However, looking at her now, my heart dropped. She did not look anything like me. Although obviously older than I was, her face was youthful: smooth and all gentle curves that were softly framed by wisps of straight blonde hair which she had put into one long simple braid. She was, is, beautiful. I couldn’t help but be disappointed. Her downturned eyes grew wide, maybe with surprise at my own reaction.

“I’m Penelope,” she smiled, but her eyes went to a blank stare. I nodded. I already knew her name. It was unspoken between Art and I but if I concentrated enough, I could feel her name taking up every crevice of my mind when Art and I were together. Penelope suddenly reached out for my hand and I put mine, limply, in hers. Her delicate black lace gloves made me shiver on contact. “How did you know Art?”

“He was my supervisor,” I said plainly.

“Oh!” Penelope exclaimed. Her eyes stayed unchanging. “Art has told me about you. You must be Emma?”

“Yes,” I nodded. My fingers twitched slightly, uncomfortable with the ease that Penelope had said my name. Did Art talk about me often?

“Please stay until the end of the memorial,” Penelope said, squeezing my hand tightly. “There’s something I think Art would like you to have.”

She looked over my shoulder and broke out into another smile. I couldn’t help but look at the nape of her neck, delicate, and a little flushed. “Oh Mrs. Forster! Be with you in a second.” She turned back to me, eyes staring intensely into my own. “Please, help yourself to food.”

At that, she fluttered away from my side, and suddenly I could breathe again. I knew meeting my lover’s widow was inevitable by coming here, but why did I come here in the first place? It was hard for me to admit my fatal curiousity about the other side of Art that he never let me see—the domestic and dutiful husband side of Art.

I took a step further into the house and looked around. Before I could analyze my surroundings further, my eyes locked with some familiar faces. The remaining tension in my limbs dissipated. I wasn’t sure if I could spend another second hyperfocusing on any of Art’s belongings.

I joined the little dark-clad circle. We all shared a round of words of disbelief and hugs.

“I’m sorry, Emma,” one of the girls said gloomily.

“Why are you sorry for me?” I blinked, a little taken aback. My mind raced. Did she know? How?

“It was obvious you had the biggest crush on Artan,” she shrugged.

I blushed and shook my head, laughing. “What? No!”

“Hey now,” someone interjected. “Let’s just talk about Art.”

The circle fell silent again. After a few moments, someone complained about deadline extensions being rejected and the group launched into conversation, relieved to take their minds away from death. I kept my ears open, but my eyes were tracking Penelope throughout the house whenever I could. Did she know?

If she did know, she did not betray a single thing. Whatever emotions she may have felt, it felt impossible to discern from her demeanour, for she kept the same expression on her face, no matter which way her lips went. She simply glided from person to person, accepting and doling out condolences as required.

The actual memorial was a blur for me. My senses were overwhelmed by the familiar and not so familiar smells, an intoxicating mix of Art and whatever was not Art. Several people made speeches, but I only paid half attention. I truly did not care about anyone here, let alone their impressions and experiences with Art. Suddenly, it felt like it was a mistake to come to the memorial.

Thankfully, the planned activities were over quickly. People started to trickle out, and my mind suddenly remembered the promise I made Penelope earlier. I tried to calm myself, clinging tightly to my small plate of grapes with both hands, the only thing that could ground me.

“Emma,” a ginger touch on my arm shocked me out of my thoughts. “Do you have time now?”

I spun around to look Penelope straight into her eyes again.

“Um,” I hesitated. “Yes.”

“Great! Let’s go to Art’s study,” Penelope smiled softly. She turned around, retreating further into the house.

My feet automatically obeyed, despite every other limb of my body saying no. A part of me needed to know whether she knew the truth or not. Another part of me wanted to fess up to everything. For what reason? I didn’t know.

Penelope led me through the lone, dark hallway before pausing at a door at the very end. She looked back, as if to make sure I was still following. Satisfied, she pushed the door open, ushering me inside.

I held my breath as I entered. I expected a near replica of Art’s office at the university: very little furniture, bare white walls, a sleek simple glass, a computer, and whatever book he would have been reading at the time. Instead, I was hit with the warmth of his study. A beautiful dark desk, stacked high with books and pens and papers strewn across the desk. There were a couple of bookshelves that were teeming with books and several potted plants placed around the room. In the corner there was a red armchair with a small coffee table and a tall reading lamp next to it. My stomach churned. Was that Penelope’s seat? Did Art often do his work while Penelope sat beside him, keeping him company?

“I’ve read your thesis drafts,” Penelope said, making a beeline to one shelf.

Suddenly, a feeling of rage overwhelmed me. I knew it was just my thesis, but my privacy suddenly felt violated. My thesis was almost like a piece of work that was carefully crafted between Art and I. Not only that, but sometimes I would include little references and love notes, scribbled in the margins of my draft submissions. Did she read those too?

Unaware of the feelings boiling through my body, Penelope continued. “I never told Art this, but I think you would like this book. I think it would be. I think he would like you to have it.” She put a single slender finger against the spines, scanning through the titles with her fingertip. She pulled out a worn out paperback from the shelf, and thumbed through some pages. I saw there were numerous sticky flags poking out from the top edge of the book. “Yes, I think he would like you to have this.” She repeated, still turning over page after page.

I took a step forward and Penelope’s head shot up, as if she had forgotten I was standing there. I just wanted to get this over with. Even after Art’s death, her presence was too overwhelming.

She smiled again, this time her eyes were sparkling. The emotions in her eyes still didn’t match the smile on her face. She stretched her arm out, handing over the book. Our fingers made contact again for the second time that day. I then realized that Penelope had taken her gloves off since the first time, and a spark of electricity coursed up through my arms, raising goosebumps in its path. I felt a weird mix of envy and resentment over her understated beauty.

“When you have the time, look it over,” Penelope said, still seemingly oblivious to the emotional whiplash that had overcome me. “Don’t mind my notes. I think Art also wrote some notes in it, too.”

“Thank you,” I said, pulling the book close to my chest hastily. “My condolences again. Thank you for holding the service, it was lovely.”

Penelope displayed the bland smile again. “Of course. Thank you for coming.”

I nodded awkwardly and quickly strode out of the room and out of the house, barely stopping to put on my heels, the straps still loose as my heels clacked against the sidewalk. Once at my car, I threw the door open and collapsed in the driver’s seat. I looked down at the book in my hand. Barely registering the title, I flipped through some pages. Sure enough I saw Art’s notes jotted down here and there, his steady underlining, his simple uppercase print, and the trademark emerald green ink he so loved to use. There was one page where I saw two different styles of writing. There was Art’s print and what I assumed was Penelope’s messy scrawl.

In Art’s writing, I read, “Is this love??” A neat arrow was drawn towards an underlined passage.

In Penelope’s scrawl, I read, “This sentence captures how I feel about you, Penny.”

I paused. That wasn’t right. I read the notes again. I started flipping through more pages, but they were all like this. The loopy mess often awkwardly complimented on the carefully handwritten print’s elaborate and poignant notes. My eyes scanned the pen etches before I slammed the book shut and threw the book onto my dashboard.

Art had never handwritten a single thing in my presence. Whenever he graded assignments with me in his office, he took notes on his laptop but returned them all handwritten comments. When I was an undergrad, his lectures were done with PowerPoint.

It didn’t make sense, and yet it did all at the same time. Art and I had a physical relationship. She must have known the entire time, and she had a hand in it, too. My vision started to blur. I let my hand linger on the key.

Against my better judgement, I pulled the key out and reached down to tighten the straps on my heels. I slowly swung the car door open and looked over at Art’s house. There was a lone figure standing at the main window. I slowly retraced my steps, back into the house of my lover.