Sometimes a girl has to choose. And sometimes a girl has choice thrust upon her. My love life was never difficult for me. I was married. When we had young children finding time for each other was difficult. I was tired, he was tired. Children can play havoc with your man and woman time.

Yes I was a naughty girl occasionally. I would like to say I could not help it. But I could. The old excuse I used as being driven by Conchita is as invalid then as it is now. I occasionally read those old posts and I see a naivety in them. I am beginning to hate being older. I cannot say old because a certain male and female seem to have exclusive rights on those terms.

Life is slow and fast at the same time. In the now I feel like I am plodding. A walking statue. But another week is in the past. Then another. We are now in yet another month. Easter eggs on the shelf. Mother’s day reminders shown everywhere I look.

Routine, routine and ritual. Get the children off to school. Get myself to work. Disappear inside myself. Get home, make food. Tidy the house. Lay on the sofa and wonder why I am not sobbing. Daylight disappears and bed begins a long call. Conchita wants relief.

The feeling of burning on a frozen landscape. Slowly melting a Mia shaped hole.

Random days break the ever decreasing momentum. Mel or Ash visit, phone me up, we drink and chat. We even go out for lunch. My spirit refills. Enough for the drip, drip, drip to continue.

Since my divorce Mel and Ash seem to be my only friends. Perhaps single girls and married girls just cannot mix. We have chats, long chats, those married friends and I, when we meet in the street. We discuss a get together, the old crew but if they decide a date I don’t get an invite. As I have only just thought of them I cannot miss them that much.

A few days ago I was sat in The Peacock pub in the town centre waiting for Mel and Ash for a catch up and lunch. Though it was more mid afternoon due to Ashley having a later finish that day. One of those pubs you get in town centres. More to do than a back street local that see only regulars and yet not quite fashionable to draw an exclusive younger crowd for evenings over the weekend. The crowded bar felt empty.

Until he walked into the place. The three piece navy suit with a chain across the waistcoat. His hair was the hair of a twenty year old, full, lush and vigorous yet his face was twice his hair.

I coughed. I pretended to sneeze. Lifting up my, I laughed at the screen. I scrolled and laughed louder. Finally I got a look from him. I gave him the eye lift, the double blink. Finally lifting my head I delivered the slow smile. Starting tiny, I let my eyes lift up his body and my smile get broader. Lifting my glass with not much left, I made a toast movement and drank the remainder.

Understanding the flirtation, within a minute he was stood at my table with a glass of red wine. “Hope you don’t mind,” he said putting it onto the table.

“It is a delight. You can keep me company till my friends arrive.”

In the ten minutes we had alone there was a lot of information exchanged. A divorcee with two children, both out of school but living with their mum. The name he carried was Martin Wickham. Working as a salesman for a large pharmaceutical company with enough success to fund his lifestyle. I thought that was a strange way to put his earning capacity. But there was certainly a connection. I felt it in the important part of me.

Mel arrived first, she gave me a look as she approached the bar. It was time, put up or shut up. If he does not ask me out, do I ask him? “My friend has arrived,” I told him, giving a little wave to Medular.

“I shall leave you to your friends. Would you honour me with your phone number so I can see you again?”

I tried not to smile. Taking out my mobile I said, “Give me your number and I shall phone you now so you will know it is my number.”

That done, “Can I phone you later?”

I nodded.

This, I hope is my bounce.

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