His Love

I met her in the summer. In a tiny seaside town on the coast of Kent she was stood by the side of the promenade. As I walked past I couldn't help but notice how her red dress seemed to dance through the streaks of the setting sun and I said:

“Hey"

She turned.

“Where you headin’?”

And just like that her pretty face was tarnished with a scowl. She went to walk away, I went to follow.

“Hold up!”

I apologised profusely and was met with silence. I spent our venture down the promenade trying to coax out a syllable. I told her of my job at the local restaurant a little way behind us. I promised her all the chips she could eat. I told her she had the prettiest face I had ever seen and all Iwanted was to get a picture with her and her pretty smile.

“It’s not much to ask!”

I talked and I talked and eventually I caught a smile, a laugh. Then she said:

“Fine, I’ll get a photo with you.”

After that we were the best of friends.

She accompanied me for lunch every day, she called me every night. Those first few weeks everyone was certain we’d be an item I never felt the need to bring it up. Eventually though the butterflies started settling their wings and I watched, helpless, as the intensity faded in her eyes.

“Take her out on a date, make a move!” Advised my friends, I asked but there was always some sort of an excuse for her not to go. Eventually she started pointing out girls to me. Eventually she started prompting me to point out boys for her.

“Introduce me to some of your nice friends!”

It was then I knew that she was lost to me.

I spent a night kicking out the bonnet of a parked car. I tried to get over it, tried to just appreciate her company but I couldn’t; jealousy bit.

When we were out together I'd see the passing boys stare at her and I knew their game, I knew what they were thinking. All of them entranced by her red dress, her sweet eyes; it made me sick. After a while I couldn’t contain myself,one day when she asked yet again to meet a friend of mine I snapped and yelled:

“You better just cool it with these boys of yours otherwise everyone in this town’ll just think you’re a cheap floozy!”

She slapped me. We didn’t talk again.

She got herself a boyfriend, played cricket down at Lyminge. All the guys told me he was a great chap, real fun. I spent every night sat on my bed, stewing. My heart leapt every time I saw a girl in the colour red. Ithought about him kissing her about him touching her. My bones itched. I had to get her back in my goddamn stinking life.

And then she called.

“He hit me, George hit me!”

I never had to smash in a window, stupid bastard left it open. I got his address off a mutual friend and went to his house armed with acricket bat. The moon was perfect and cool and lit up the living room for me as I stepped inside. I make a lucky guess for his bedroom, get it right first time.

Standing by the side of his bed I watch his chest rise and fall. I count, I wait, and on the tenth rise I bring the bat down. Gasps and grunts burst out and soon enough all that lovely ink throws itself about us.

He doesn’t die, he doesn’t live much either.

We’re sitting in a park when I tell her the terrible news:

“They said it was probably just a couple of drugged up kids looking for kicks.”

Her eyes stay fixed to the ground, this is my chance.

"I'm sorry I abandoned you Felicity."

She looks up at me, her beautiful sweet eyes. I continue.

"I'm sorry that I couldn't stop him hurting you. I'll never let you get hurt again."

It works, she's looking at me like she used to. And then she kisses me.

All the butterflies come back with their beating wings. I tell her I love her, she smiles and kisses me again. It’s finally happened. It’ll all be okay.  

We date for three weeks. She tells me that it’s awkward and we’re better suited as friends. I hate her for it.

She stops calling. I think of all the different ways I could have acted, all the things I could of done to make her stay and love me. I feel a sort of greyness that seems to stretch itself about me; I can't taste, can't feel. It washes over my future so all that is left is a past that went wrong. I contemplate killing myself in several ways; pills, razors, a rope. I never do.

“Coward!” I call myself, hit myself and call it again. But it’s not cowardice; as long as she’s still here there’s still a chance.

I move country, end up in Florida, always summer there. As time goes by I procure a wife and kids, grand-kids  We have close friends and comfortable jobs. Every day is the same; in the morning I check the post and in the evening we all sit together in the garden to eat.

Every day I imagine her with her husband and kids. Group of friends. Comfortable jobs.  I think about her in the red dress and smiling at me. I like to imagine that she thinks about me but I know she doesn't  perhaps once in a while I may pass her mind, nothing more.

All this time I spend waiting until finally, a letter comes:

It is with great sadness that I must inform you of the passing of Felicity Hart…

I never finish it. I slip it back in the envelope and place it on the table. I spend the day with the grandchildren playing cricket in the garden. When the evening comes I kiss them all an early night saying I have a headache. I take the pills out of the medicine cabinet and pour myself a glass of water. Before I get into bed I crouch by the window pane and pull out the section by the floor that I had tampered with years ago; inside is the picture of myself and Felicity, her smile, all those years ago. They find me clutching it to my chest the next day.

Now I’m ready.