by Joy Deacon
He stood in the cold, bright station, unaware of people rushing past him, scrolling through his messages, telling himself this was a mistake.
If it hadn’t been for social media, he wouldn’t be standing here, wouldn’t have struggled with his conscience all week. Now here he was waiting for the girl who broke his heart twenty years ago. Who had walked away without a backward glance.
He’d met her, by chance, a few years later. As they’d talked, he’d subtly let her see his wedding ring, smiled at the toddler standing beside her, as she waved her hands around, making her own gold band noticeable. Afterwards though, he’d sat in his car and let the visceral grief return.
At the time, his parents told him it was a teenage romance, plenty more fish and all that. But then he overheard them: they were scared to leave him for too long. Immediately, he’d understood why his mother hovered outside the bathroom whilst he took a bath, why she always hammered on the door saying she needed to use the loo. It was his guilt about worrying them that made him try to recover. Eventually, he married the actual love of his life. But here he was, in the freezing cold, waiting for another woman.
After twenty minutes, just as he decided to leave, the girl he’d once loved appeared in front of him, smiling brightly, but with dull, careworn eyes, obviously hiding a thousand hurts. As she leaned towards him, to peck his cheek, he stepped back, nodding a hello, and in the station bar, he ignored her silent invitation to sit beside her. Instead, he sat opposite, both hands around his drink. He listened to her speak, all the while subconsciously twisting his own ring and noticing that she wasn’t wearing one.
Nervously, she kept talking, avoiding what was between them. Then tears filled her eyes as she took his hand, looked straight at him, and said, ‘I made a mistake. I should have stayed with you. Could we…”
He drew back on his chair and checked his phone again. For twenty minutes he’d waited for a woman who had decided that she wanted to love him again. Twenty minutes that could blow his life apart. Slowly, silently, he removed her hand, stood up and walked quickly to the door. He needed to go home.
© Joy Deacon
Writers’ Neuk 