~Valentine’s
Walking along the street, everything seems fine. I’m alone, again, but that’s OK. I’m used to being alone, by now, embrace it even. I tell myself the quiet gives me space to fill my head with the fantasies I love so much. I tell myself I could never be so imaginative with someone else with me.
In one of my fantasies, I don’t notice the stranger walking straight towards me. In one of his fantasies, he does not notice me. We collide in the middle of the busy street. No coffee is cutely spilled, but an ankle is twisted. He offers to drive me to the hospital and I accept. The drive is a long one, it’s a Saturday and the roads are filled with milling traffic. We eventually reach it and he stays with me while I am treated and drives me home again afterwards.
As the standard cliché demands, we exchange phone numbers. He comes to my house to help me handle the chores I couldn’t do alone, being hardly able to walk. We swiftly become close and, when my ankle heals weeks later, he begins to take me out on dates. Picnics, cinema, ice skating, Italian restaurants. Before long we settle once again into a more casual routine. Officially a couple now, we’re able to spend days together simply. A Sunday waking up late, going for a roast at the local pub, returning to newspapers and Sunday evening television.
There is still romance, though. A rose left by the bathroom sink as a surprise for when he is gone, a simple text while he is at the office to brighten his day.
Weeks turn into months, months add into a year since the fateful day on the busy street. He surprises me by taking me to a nice meal at one of my favourite Chinese restaurants. After we have finished our main course and before the dessert, he gently says my name. Casually and suspiciously, he slides a red velvet box over the table towards me, like a spy handing over secret information. I take the box from his warm hand with a nervous smile. Upon opening I am first struck by the beauty of the ring- a cluster of small stones on white gold, simple, elegant, then notice the words printed inside the roof of the box.
“Marry me?”
A smile stretches my face as I look into his eyes. He is waiting nervously for my answer, his lip near shredded. I nod discretely and kiss his hand. The exchange, in rebellion to convention, mostly unnoticed by the surrounding diners.
Sixteen months later we’re wed in a small church service with only the closest friends and family. Wearing a simple white gown, I feel like the princess I should. We hold a larger party afterwards for more of our general friends, acquaintances and people from work.
The marriage is a rare gem. It lasts, unlike so many these days, produces two well mannered and successful children and five grandchildren the same. Living in the same house we have since our wedding day, we entertain family and friends who visit regularly. We’re old now and his warm hands are stiff with arthritis, but we carry on happy as ever. Though my hands have withered, the small white gold ring with the cluster of stones still fits perfectly.
As all things end, so does our blessed marriage. He becomes ill and due to his age deteriorates quickly. It is a matter of months before we have to say goodbye. In those months I stay by his bedside as a permanent feature, and I hold his hand tightly in his final moments. Family rally round to comfort me and make sure I am well, but they cannot heal the heart once broken. It is not long before I too fall ill and, though I love my family, feel no need to fight the fight for life when I could so soon be with him.
In one of my fantasies, I don’t notice him. In one of his fantasies, he does not notice me. We barely bump shoulders before he moves on, his vision past me, to the lovely young woman sat at a café table waiting for him.
Walking along the street, everything seems fine. I’m alone, again, but that’s OK. I’m used to being alone, by now, embrace it even. I tell myself the quiet gives me space to fill my head with the fantasies I love so much. I tell myself I could never be so imaginative with someone else with me.
In one of my fantasies, I don’t notice the stranger walking straight towards me. In one of his fantasies, he does not notice me. We collide in the middle of the busy street. No coffee is cutely spilled, but an ankle is twisted. He offers to drive me to the hospital and I accept. The drive is a long one, it’s a Saturday and the roads are filled with milling traffic. We eventually reach it and he stays with me while I am treated and drives me home again afterwards.
As the standard cliché demands, we exchange phone numbers. He comes to my house to help me handle the chores I couldn’t do alone, being hardly able to walk. We swiftly become close and, when my ankle heals weeks later, he begins to take me out on dates. Picnics, cinema, ice skating, Italian restaurants. Before long we settle once again into a more casual routine. Officially a couple now, we’re able to spend days together simply. A Sunday waking up late, going for a roast at the local pub, returning to newspapers and Sunday evening television.
There is still romance, though. A rose left by the bathroom sink as a surprise for when he is gone, a simple text while he is at the office to brighten his day.
Weeks turn into months, months add into a year since the fateful day on the busy street. He surprises me by taking me to a nice meal at one of my favourite Chinese restaurants. After we have finished our main course and before the dessert, he gently says my name. Casually and suspiciously, he slides a red velvet box over the table towards me, like a spy handing over secret information. I take the box from his warm hand with a nervous smile. Upon opening I am first struck by the beauty of the ring- a cluster of small stones on white gold, simple, elegant, then notice the words printed inside the roof of the box.
“Marry me?”
A smile stretches my face as I look into his eyes. He is waiting nervously for my answer, his lip near shredded. I nod discretely and kiss his hand. The exchange, in rebellion to convention, mostly unnoticed by the surrounding diners.
Sixteen months later we’re wed in a small church service with only the closest friends and family. Wearing a simple white gown, I feel like the princess I should. We hold a larger party afterwards for more of our general friends, acquaintances and people from work.
The marriage is a rare gem. It lasts, unlike so many these days, produces two well mannered and successful children and five grandchildren the same. Living in the same house we have since our wedding day, we entertain family and friends who visit regularly. We’re old now and his warm hands are stiff with arthritis, but we carry on happy as ever. Though my hands have withered, the small white gold ring with the cluster of stones still fits perfectly.
As all things end, so does our blessed marriage. He becomes ill and due to his age deteriorates quickly. It is a matter of months before we have to say goodbye. In those months I stay by his bedside as a permanent feature, and I hold his hand tightly in his final moments. Family rally round to comfort me and make sure I am well, but they cannot heal the heart once broken. It is not long before I too fall ill and, though I love my family, feel no need to fight the fight for life when I could so soon be with him.
In one of my fantasies, I don’t notice him. In one of his fantasies, he does not notice me. We barely bump shoulders before he moves on, his vision past me, to the lovely young woman sat at a café table waiting for him.
