The Pink Scarf
Valentine buried her husband two years ago. He had been seventeen years her senior. She was just twenty-nine when they met.
Men had never paid her much attention. Quiet and homely, she avoided clubs and rowdy gatherings. In school and university, boys saw her as a friend—someone to copy homework from or borrow lecture notes. They dated the bright, lively girls, the ones unburdened by convention or morality.
She met Eugene on the street. It was a warm May afternoon, the cherry trees in full bloom, the fresh greenery vibrant under a generous sun. Valentine decided to walk home, savoring the day, squinting at the light, smiling at strangers for no reason at all.
Then she saw him—tall, handsome, in a black trench coat left carelessly open. As he passed her, he grinned. “Lovely weather. Practically summer. And here I am in a coat.” His voice was deep, warm.
“You could always take it off,” she teased.
Without hesitation, he peeled it off and draped it over his arm. For some reason, she lingered, watching as if spellbound.
“Much better. Fancy an ice cream?” He didn’t wait for an answer, bolting toward a nearby kiosk. Valentine almost left—it felt awkward to stay—but he returned, handing her a tub of creamy vanilla.
“Oh! My favorite,” she said, surprised. “How did you know?”
“Same here,” he replied.
They strolled together, chatting about everything. She came home later than usual, skipping dinner—too full from the ice cream.
“Someone’s got stars in her eyes,” her mother noted slyly.
“Don’t be silly,” Valentine muttered, flushing.
Eugene called the next day, asking her out.
“It’s raining. Did you forget? I didn’t bring an umbrella,” she grumbled.
“No matter. Let’s catch a film. Where do you work? I’ll pick you up.”
In the dim cinema glow, he confessed his wife had passed a year prior—a congenital heart defect. The doctors had warned her against children.
“I loved her deeply. The lack of children never mattered. I was devoted—would’ve moved mountains for her. After she died, I barely survived. Thought I’d spend my days alone. But then I saw you… Do you understand, Valerie—”
“Valentine,” she corrected.
“You remind me of her. Not in looks. Your eyes—clear as springwater. You’re untouched by modern cynicism. That’s rare these days.”
The next evening, Valentine returned from work to find Eugene sipping tea with her mother. A bouquet of roses sat between them.
“Darling, we’ve been having such a lovely chat,” her mother purred, eyes telegraphing: *Don’t be a fool.*
Eugene was undeniably refined—tailored suits, silver-streaked hair lending him an air of distinction. Her mother had already tallied his assets: a flat in Kensington, a sleek car, a prestigious salary. No children? Even better. No need to fuss over stepkids. Her daughter could have her own.
“Mum, I’ve known him a *week*, and you’re already planning the wedding,” Valentine hissed later. “He’s kind, but I don’t *love* him.”
“Love fades. A match built on sense lasts. With him, you’ll want for nothing. You’re not a schoolgirl dreaming of romance.”
As he left, Eugene asked her to walk him to his car.
“Tomorrow, I’d like you and your mother to see my home. Valentine, let’s be clear—if children matter to you, I’ll understand. But I’m too old for fatherhood. Sleepless nights and nappies? Not at my age.”
At least he was honest. She never brought it up again.
Life with him *was* secure. Colleagues envied her. While their husbands caroused, Eugene ferried her to and from work. Her mother insisted she’d won the lottery. Grandchildren would’ve been nice—but happiness couldn’t be perfect.
Three years passed in contentment. She never regretted marrying him. They had respect, trust—a quiet, steadfast bond.
Then, one evening, he came home, ate supper, and lay down to rest. When she realized something was wrong, it was too late.
After the funeral, she drifted through routines. Her mother’s prodding—*You must move on*—only grated. Have a child *alone*? *How*, for heaven’s sake?
Eugene had disliked her wearing bright colors or makeup.
“Why bother? You’re married. Only women hunting attention paint their faces.”
She’d boxed away her old clothes, twisted her hair into austere knots, dressed in drab fabrics. She looked older than her years.
Then spring came. Buds unfurled, birds sang at dawn, sunlight thawing even the ice within her.
One morning, rummaging for work clothes, she spotted the pink scarf—a relic from her past. How had it survived among the dreary dresses? She looped it around her neck.
The bus was packed. As she edged toward the exit, the scarf snagged, tightening like a noose. Passengers shoved; she fought the fabric, gasping. Against the current, she lurched backward—elbows jabbing, curses flying—until she spotted the culprit: a young man yanking the scarf free from his bag’s zipper.
“Careful! You’ll rip it,” she snapped.
The doors hissed shut. The bus rolled on.
“Brilliant. Now I’ve missed my stop,” she muttered.
“My fault? Dress like that, you ought to take cabs,” he shot back, tugging harder. “What, sentimental over hubby’s gift?”
Bickering, they rode to the next stop. Outside, he freed the scarf with ease.
“Thanks,” she said coolly. “Now I’ve a walk ahead of me.”
“I’ll tag along.”
“Don’t bother. I’m sure your mother’s waiting.” She turned away.
“Mother’s gone. Fifteen when she died. Dad remarried. I rent a flat now.” He fell into step beside her.
“I’m sorry. My husband passed, too. *He* didn’t give me this scarf. Bought it myself at uni.” Why was she confessing this?
“Funny, though—out of dozens on that bus, it snagged *my* bag.” He grinned. “Fate’s a clingy thing.”
She halted. “*Fate*? Don’t be absurd.”
“Suit yourself. Still, names would be polite. I’m Jasper. Mum called me Jay. And you?”
She didn’t answer, veering toward her building. At the door, she glanced back. He stood at the corner, waving.
At home, she scolded herself. He’d been perfectly decent. Why act like a brat? The next day, she scanned the bus stop, hoping to apologize.
A week later, rain sheeted down. Head bent, dodging puddles, she nearly collided with him at her doorstep.
“Stalking me?” She snapped her umbrella shut.
“Wanted to see you.”
She searched for mockery. Found none—just a bold, earnest stare.
“You’re my fate, remember? Tea? I’m soaked.” He sneezed theatrically, boyish charm breaking through.
She was chilled to the bone. Over tea, he confessed he’d nearly joined the Army—like his brother. But after his mother’s death, he’d chosen med school instead. Now, finishing his residency. She listened, already dreading the nurses and patients who’d swoon over him. A pang of jealousy struck.
He returned the next night—after dark. She opened the door and was swept into his arms.
“Couldn’t stay away,” he murmured, lips scorching her neck.
She pushed against his chest, but her knees buckled, pulse roaring. She clutched him to keep from falling.
With Eugene, intimacy had been perfunctory—lights off, nightgown on, enduring his touch until he rolled away. She hadn’t known it could be *like this*—melting under Jay’s kisses, trembling at his whisper:
“Say the word, and I’ll stop.”
She didn’t.
Afterward, she lay awake, replaying every second. Come morning, she watched him devour breakfast, dazed. *Is this love?* Maybe. But she hadn’t lost her head—just let herself *feel*, for once.
She waited for him nightly, heart counting the hours. Bought jeans, mascara, let her hair down. The mirror showed a stranger. Everyone saw the change. Everyone knew a man was the cause.
She felt like a girl again—flinging open the door at his knock, surrendering to his embrace.
Logic whispered this madness would end. They were from different worlds, flung together by chance.
Then, one evening, he arrived somber.
“What’s wrong?”
“My residency’s over.”
“That’s *wonderful*!”
“Got an offer. Top hospital.”And as she clutched the pink scarf years later, watching her daughter play in the autumn leaves, she finally understood that some accidents—like a snagged thread—could unravel the old life and weave something new in its place.
