Pink Ochre Magazine

But you, with your high cheekbones, dark chestnut hair, and velvet brown eyes, were the only one for me.
                   You still are, George. You always will be.
                   You came to my wedding, sat at the back, sang along lustily to ‘Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer’. I kept peeking at you across the pews, even while repeating my vows. I hadn’t invited you, out of respect to my fiancé, but you slipped away anyway before the photos, didn’t come to the reception at the Corrigan Road Social Club.

                   I went full jingly-jangly for your Hare Krishna phase, with a kaftan from Dorothy Perkins and a couple of bells from the pet shop. Inspired by your Concert for Bangladesh, I held a Hits and Hotpot fundraiser for the First Horsham Sea Scouts.
                  My marriage didn’t last. How could it, when I loved another? When I saw you at my solicitor’s, reloading the photocopier, I almost swallowed my chewing gum, couldn’t help coughing all over my decree nisi.
                  I’d catch sight of you every so often, on a till at Woolworth’s or pulling pints at the Pig and Bristle. You even turned up as the DJ for my mum’s sixtieth! I was all glammed up, so I thought it might happen at last. But, when I sashayed across to request ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’, you only nodded, didn’t look up through your curtain of hair.
                  Tonight, as I do on this day every January, I’ll squeeze into my Mary Quant
minidress, clip a bow into my hair like Pattie, picture myself at Epsom Register Office. I’ll
pull out my old Dansette, play my favourites over and over, sing along to ‘My Sweet Lord’.
I’ll lay your place at the table, light a candle, imagine the life we might have led.

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