I MISSED MY DESTINY
They say finding love at work isn’t serious business. I wasn’t even searching. It found me. Not as a charming coworker with a cup of tea and tie, but as a quiet man in a black Ford in line for gas. I worked at the petrol station.
At first, he just watched in silence. Then he started to smile. It felt like he learned my schedule and showed up only when I was on shift. My name was Lisa. I was 33, and quite the girl: a platinum blonde, bold, straightforward, with a personality honed in a male-dominated environment. And he… he was different. At 42, he had eyes like an icy February sky, shoulders broad enough to break down walls. And his smile… warm, calm, a little boyish.
His name was John. He lived in a house next to the station, with his son and a dog named Rover. His son was from a previous marriage. His wife left them both. He didn’t work; he collected rent from four apartments he inherited from his grandmother and simply lived. He traveled, strolled, relaxed.
One day, he pulled his car up to the pump and said, “Come on, I’ll show you a town that you’ll fall in love with.” Then there was another town. And another. We drank beer in almost empty pubs, stayed at seaside hotels off-season, slept to the sound of waves, wandered through markets in Brighton and York, listened to jazz in Manchester.
I fell in love. I was consumed by him. I, who always stayed free and didn’t believe in labels, was living with him three months later. We didn’t formalize anything, we were just together.
At first, I talked about having a child. I dreamed. I pictured us walking as a family: John, me, and a baby. But John was adamant. He said he’d already done his stint of fatherhood and wasn’t signing up for another round. And mainly, kids hinder freedom.
“You can’t just fly off to Paris for the weekend with a bump, Lisa, then push a pram along the cobblestones. That wouldn’t be life; it’d be a cage.” He said it so calmly, with such conviction, that I started to fear the thought of a future child myself.
Years went by like that. I became a bleached handler of his carefree lifestyle. I cooked, ironed, bought his favorite snacks, laughed in the right moments, while he… he watched football more and lazily flipped through the newspaper, saying I was “the one.”
His son grew up. Initially, he despised me. Then he started to look at me with curiosity. And then he brought home a girl — just like I was six years ago. Young, vibrant, blonde. She spent nights at ours, laughed at my jokes, called me “Lissy.”
I watched her and understood everything. I wanted to shout, “Run! Don’t waste your life like I did! Don’t lose yourself, don’t silence your voice, don’t abandon your dreams. You still have the chance to change everything!”
And me? I no longer believe. I’m 39. I have no children. I quit my job, lost my friends, said goodbye to my parents. It’s just me, John, Rover, and the rusting love that’s become more habit than anything else.
He still doesn’t work. He still collects rent from the flats, still drinks beer every evening. And I still set the salad bowl in front of him and wait. Wait to feel that all is not lost. But it’s self-deception.
Sometimes at night, while he sleeps, I step onto the balcony and gaze at the sky. It seems if I wished hard enough, I could change everything. But it’s too late. Far too late.
