The ghost of Valentine's past

”Crap!” Bryan dropped his glasses.

It was 10pm, mid-summer. He had just enjoyed a merlot or four and his usual steak, alone.

A young waitress with a tooth gap came over - ”Dinner for one?”

”Yes,” he grumbled bedgruglingly and waved her away. He had completely forgotten it was Valentine’s Day, until he arrived to giddy couples holding hands, talking softly. Bryan cursed - SHE wouldn’t have forgotten.

Irene sat at the bar, supposedly the swankiest place to be seen. But she wondered what the fuss was; the mushroom-coloured wallpaper, the yellow light giving a sick saintly glow. The bartender noticed her jiggling nervously and approached, and Irene ordered another vodka martini.

”Stronger, this time…” He’s obviously not coming, she just needed to accept that she’d been stood up. That’s it, modern dating is a waste of time. She downed her drink and paid, scoffing at the prices.

”I’ll have to sell my wedding ring before I come back here, though it’s probably only worth a few drinks.” She was feeling like a bitter and rejected old lady, every day another bloody wrinkle.

Irene clutched her bag and hurried down the main street. There was a dark blur of a man ahead, kneeling down strangely. She startled as her foot kicked something across the pavement - a hideously large pair of dark-grey glasses. Shocked, she realised who she must’ve encountered.

”Looking for something?”

”Bloody hell Irene, I’d recognise that voice miles away.” Bryan fumbled, returning his glasses to his face.

”Well, I’ve had one hell of an evening,” Irene burbled. ”Fancy a cheap red and a seat by the water we used to admire?”

”Sure love. Don’t forget it’s Valentines; plenty of young things we can yell advice at.”

”Tell them not to bother,” she said with a sly wink.

Uella Watson (editing: Brendan McBryde)