The Polite Man (part 2 of Studies in Disillusion) [Website contribution]

Everyone liked him. The neighbours, co-workers, people at the market, men who mistook restraint for character. He smiled softly, with his mouth closed. Held doors open. Lowered his eyes when spoken to, as if gentleness was something natural to him.

People trusted him immediately.

—

At night, his silences changed temperature. Not shouting. Never shouting. The slow withdrawal of warmth while her body was still beside him.

—

Later, others would say how sad he seemed. How devastated. How deeply he had loved her.

And she would remember crying in front of him — fully crying — while he sat perfectly still, his face already elsewhere. No hand on her back. No movement toward her. Not once.

—

Not betrayal. Not even the lies. But the terrifying calm of someone who watched her cry as if waiting for weather to pass.

—

Outside, he remained untouched. Still polite. Still careful. Still speaking softly about the amazing woman he was supposedly losing. As if grief were another performance.

—

Cold hands. Empty eyes. A voice.