I ran into my ex after thirty years at a supermarket checkout. I placed my yoghurt, ham, and cigarettes on the conveyor. The cashier greeted me quickly without looking up, scanned the items, and asked, “Will that be all?” She flicked a dyed fringe out of her eyes—a gesture so familiar it made my chest tighten. I would’ve walked away if I hadn’t glanced at her name badge pinned to her chest. *Margaret Harvey.*
“Rita… is that you?”
Finally, she looked up.
“Oh blimey… Alex?”
“Yeah, me. Never thought I’d bump into you like this.”
Summer of 1988. Rita and I strolled through London on a Sunday. She wore a short black skirt, her legs slender and graceful, her walk loose with a cheeky swing. There was always a playful smirk on her lips, like she was just out of reach—teasing, inviting, always slipping away. Men turned their heads, and I swelled with pride even as I burned with frustration because she wouldn’t even let me hold her hand.
I told her I dreamed of being a journalist. Rita just laughed.
“Bit dull, isn’t it? I’m going to be a singer—now that’s proper glam.”
We were twenty. Rita was finishing music college—piano—but with summer break in full swing, she’d grown her nails long and painted them scarlet. Those hands drove me mad.
“I’m starving,” she declared. “There’s a café.”
I had a tenner in my pocket, meant to last me the week. Mum had slipped it to me before leaving. But this café looked posh—probably a small fortune. Still, I played it cool. “Course, let’s go!” Inside, I prayed the tenner would cover it.
Rita ordered champagne and pizza. I swallowed my panic and drank. At that point, all I cared about was getting her back to my place. Then, the jukebox blared *The Cure*. Rita leapt up, dancing like she owned the room. Blokes forgot their pints, eyes locked on her. She even sang along—*”Just like heaven…”*—as if she were already the star she swore she’d be.
I nearly didn’t have enough, but Rita tossed a quid onto the table. “Sod it, let’s have fun. What next?”
We went back to mine. That night was—well, let’s just say it was the most vivid memory I still carry.
Three months later, autumn hit, and so did reality. Rita dumped me.
“Listen, I met this bloke—posh one. Says he knows people at a recording studio. I’m making an album. Gonna call it *My Happiness*.”
“Bloody daft title,” I muttered, walking away. I wanted to scream, to hurt her, to drag her back to my bed. Young men are fools ruled by ego.
Thirty years passed. Thirty. And now, Rita—plump, practical Rita—sat behind a till.
“Remember when you wanted to be a singer?” I asked.
She gave a tight laugh. “We all wanted things. But you made it, didn’t you? I’ve read your pieces. Proud of you.”
I left the shop, brooding. Thirty years of quiet revenge, and here it was. I even refused my change—just ten pence, not like we could’ve bought champagne with it now. The music had faded. Rita had thickened. And life? Life had reduced her to barcodes and beeps.
But two days later, I went back—no reason, just did.
She lit up. “You smoke? Fancy a quick one?”
Outside, she apologised, blushing. “I was a right cow back then.”
“Rita, it’s thirty years. I’ve three kids and an ex-wife.”
She smirked—same old Rita. “Still pitying me, eh? Poor old bird stuck on checkout?”
“Not exactly—”
“You remember my album title? *My Happiness*? Wasn’t stupid. Happiness changes, you see. Been married twenty-five years to Dave—decent bloke, terrible snorer, but he’s clever with his hands. Built us a garden shed, fixes cars. Got a daughter—lawyer, nothing like me. And a granddaughter. Little Rita. She’s a year and a half. I sing to her. She thinks I’m brilliant.”
She stubbed out her fag. “I could retire, but why? Chatting keeps me young. Right, gotta dash.”
“Rita,” I called after her. “Blimey, you’re right. And I don’t pity you one bit.”
At the door, she turned. “Oh—and I *did* become a singer. To my granddaughter, I’m a proper star.”
Life isn’t about the grand stages you dreamed of—it’s about who’s still listening when you sing.
