by Kelly Evans
I met you on a Sunday. It wasn’t an auspicious start if I’m honest.
We bumped into each other in the literal sense – you had your eyes to the ground, doing something on your phone and you sent me flying, landing on the grass verge with my handbag emptying its contents onto the path, coins and make up scattered about like so much flotsam. You helped me up and got my things together, wiping the grass from my bottom a little too enthusiastically, I thought. You took me for a coffee to apologise, asked me my name over a skinny chai latte while I checked myself for damage.
From there things went swimmingly. We dined out and you were always a perfect gent, opening doors and pulling my chair out for me. When we went to the cinema you always bought the ice cream and the popcorn and anything else I wanted. You even paid extra for those big fat seats in the middle row with the faux leather covers and the big wooden arm rests. I’d never been wooed before so this made a big change from being inexpertly chatted up in bars by men with sweat on their brow and too much aftershave on their skin.
I was really looking forward to our first night together. We waited a while, to be fair, though it didn’t seem like it. Nearly three weeks of old fashioned courting came and went in the blink of an eye before I finally persuaded you to stay over. You were shy to a fault and I wondered if there was something behind your smile that was holding you back. You seemed to be excited and scared at the same time. I wondered if maybe you were a virgin or if you’d been hurt by someone hard and cold with no respect for your feelings. I suspected there was some other reason for your nerves.
Now as I sit here in a shaft of morning light still reeling from the whirlwind of last night I realise I was right. And if I ever get out of these knots I will make you pay.
Kelly Evans lives in Reading. She makes a living by working with Excel but really lives for the time she gets to spend with Word.