I bumped into my ex after thirty years—just a cashier in a supermarket now. I placed my kefir and cigarettes on the conveyor, and she robotically greeted me without looking up, scanning the items. “Is that all?” she asked, flicking her streaked bangs aside. A gesture so familiar. I might’ve walked away if I hadn’t glanced at the name tag pinned to her chest. *Margaret Averton.*
“Rita—is that you?”
Finally, she lifted her eyes.
“Yes… why? Oh—bloody hell! *Alex?*”
“That’s me. Never thought I’d see you like this.”
Summer, 1988. We’re strolling through Manchester on a Sunday. Rita’s wearing a black miniskirt, impossibly thin, with legs that could stop traffic. There’s a teasing sway in her step, a smirk always playing on her lips. She slips through my fingers like smoke, and I’m left chasing. Rita oozes raw sex appeal—men turn their heads. Part of me swells with pride; part of me burns because she won’t even let me hold her hand.
I tell her I dream of being a journalist. She laughs.
“Doesn’t that sound dull? *I’m* going to be a singer. Mark my words.”
We’re twenty. Rita’s just graduated from music college—piano. Summer break means no lessons, just long nails painted cherry-red. Those hands drive me mad.
“I’m starving!” she announces. “There’s a café.”
I’ve got a tenner in my pocket—my entire budget for the week. That café looks posh, the kind that’ll clean me out. But I play it cool: “Sure, let’s go!” Inside, I’m praying it’s enough.
Rita orders pizza and champagne. We drink. At this point, I don’t care—just get her home with me. Then *Duran Duran* comes on. Rita leaps up, dancing wild and alone, lost in the music. Every bloke in the place stares. She even sings along: *”The reflex is a lonely child…”* like she’s already the star she swore she’d be.
The bill nearly ruins me, but Rita tosses a quid onto the table.
“Come on—what’s next?”
We stumbled back to my flat. Best night of my life. A dizzy, sweaty blur. *”The reflex is a lonely child…”* echoed in my boozy, blissful skull.
Three months later, autumn came, and so did the end. Rita dumped me.
“Listen, I’ve met this bloke—really cool. He knows someone at a recording studio. I’m cutting an album. I’ve even got a title—*‘My Happiness.’*”
“Stupid title,” I said.
Then I left. I wanted to howl. To hurt her. To drag her back to bed. Young men are fools.
Thirty years. *Thirty bloody years.* The woman before me was plump now, a supermarket Rita.
“Didn’t you want to be a singer?” I smirked.
She gave a tense little laugh.
“We all wanted things… But I read your articles. You did good.”
I stepped outside, thinking of Rita. In a way, I’d had my revenge—three decades late. I hadn’t even taken my change. A tenner. Not enough for champagne now. The music had died. Rita was thick around the middle, her life reduced to beeping barcodes. A tragedy.
Days later, I wandered back to the same supermarket. No reason.
She was there. Lit up when she saw me.
“You smoke? Come on—I’ll get Naomi to cover the till.”
Rita threw on a jacket. We lit up.
“I was an idiot back then,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Rita, it doesn’t matter now. Thirty years. I’m on my third marriage. Three kids.”
She laughed—just like she used to.
“You pity me, don’t you? Poor old Rita, stuck on the till.”
“Not exactly—”
“I see it. Remember when I wanted to call the album *‘My Happiness’*? It wasn’t stupid. I’d still call it that now. Happiness just… changes. Been married twenty-five years to a good man—Dave. Solid bloke. No ear for music, snores like a chainsaw. But he’s a brilliant mechanic. Built us a fireplace at the cottage. Knows how to fix anything. Got a grown daughter—stunning. Twenty-two now—imagine, older than I was then. Studying law. Nothing like me. She’s married—we’ve got a granddaughter, little Rita, eighteen months. I’m a happy nan. The till? Don’t need the money. But why not, while the baby’s at nursery? I like people. Anyway—gotta dash.”
“Rita,” I managed. “You’re right. You’re bloody right. And I don’t pity you at all. Run along—good seeing you.”
At the sliding doors, she turned back.
“Oh—and I *am* a singer now! I sing to my granddaughter. She loves it. So I’m a star. A proper star… to her.”
