Never Again
After work, Elaine stopped by the shop. She didn’t feel like cooking, but Sophie needed to eat. She grabbed a pack of pasta and some sausages—her daughter had loved them since childhood. She also picked up a carton of milk and a loaf of bread.
A short queue had formed at the till. In front of Elaine stood a burly man in a black jacket and a knitted bobble hat. *”Youngish bloke wearing that ridiculous hat. Probably knitted by his doting wife. Some women really do their best to make their husbands look daft so no one else glances at them. Bet he’s got a baby face to match,”* she mused, glaring at the garish striped hat.
The man turned around, catching her stare. She looked away quickly. *”Well, he doesn’t look half as stupid as I thought.”* The man glanced at her again.
*”Gonna burn a hole through me with those eyes?”* he said.
*”Not much worth looking at. I’ve got better things to do,”* Elaine muttered irritably.
The queue wasn’t moving. Annoyance bubbled up inside her. And that hat… She wanted to dump her shopping and leave, but this was the only shop near her flat. *”Every time there’s a man in a queue, it takes forever. Bet he’ll faff about choosing cigarettes—*’Not those, the blue pack with the red stripe. No? Then the white ones with the green label.’*—then spend ages digging for change.”* She sighed dramatically.
Sure enough, the man at the till now was hitching up his jacket and fishing coins from his tight jeans pockets. Elaine exhaled loudly.
*”In a hurry? Go ahead,”* said *”Bobble Hat,”* stepping aside.
Elaine shrugged and took his place at the conveyor belt. The man finally scraped together the right change, bagged his modest groceries, and moved off.
Her turn came. The cashier scanned her items while Elaine rummaged fruitlessly in her handbag for her card.
*”Can’t you hurry up? Should’ve had your money ready,”* someone behind her snapped.
*”Lost your card?”* Bobble Hat asked, smirking.
Elaine ignored him, still digging.
*”I’ll pay,”* he told the cashier.
*”Don’t bother!”* Elaine flushed and finally slapped her card on the reader. *”Found it. Sorry.”*
She stuffed her shopping into the bag and hurried out. *”What’s wrong with me? So what if his hat’s hideous? Let him wear it. I’m so snappy lately.”* She scolded herself all the way home.
*”It’s all his fault. We had a good life—or was I just fooling myself? He left me for some silly girl who got pregnant. ‘Did the decent thing’ and married her. Never spared a thought for Sophie growing up without a dad. And I’ll be forty soon. Forty! God, that’s old…”*
He’d left her the flat—bought his way out. Small mercy. *”Why do we women suffer because of them? Same story every time. A handful stay faithful, or at least smart enough not to wreck their families. Then they hit forty and go chasing after girls half their age. What about us? How are we supposed to live?”* Her inner monologue was endless. She blinked back tears.
Inside the building, she pressed the lift button. The doors creaked open, releasing a dishevelled drunk who stumbled past. Elaine stepped in and grimaced—the stale stink of booze and cheap fags filled the tiny space. *”All the same. Boozing or cheating. Can’t stand them.”*
The lift jerked to a halt at her floor. She fumbled with her keys, gloves tangling, nearly dropping them on the grubby carpet. Finally, the door swung open.
Sophie was at her desk, doing homework. She glanced up, eyes flickering with something—disdain? Irritation?
*”Mum, I need money for the theatre. School trip on Saturday,”* she announced.
*”I’ll make dinner first,”* Elaine replied, retreating to the kitchen.
*”More money. Like I print the stuff. One income now—rent, bills, food… Counting every penny.”* She filled a pan with water, grumbling to an invisible audience about life’s unfairness.
*”Mum? About the theatre?”* Sophie stood in the doorway, finger marking her page.
*”I’ll get cash tomorrow,”* Elaine sighed without turning.
Satisfied, Sophie vanished.
*”Let’s see how long *his* bliss lasts. She won’t stay young and pretty forever. A baby’ll sort that—sleepless nights, no time for herself. And he’s no spring chicken, pushing fifty. Serves him right. Should be thinking about grandkids, not starting over. Ugh, why am I even thinking about him?”*
After dinner, she sat at the computer and switched on the desk lamp. It buzzed, flickered, died. *”Perfect. Just what I needed. Bought it a week ago!”* She fiddled with the bulb. Nothing. *”I’ll take it back tomorrow—if I can find the receipt.”* But she’d tossed it with the box.
The next evening, Elaine lugged the heavy lamp to the electrical shop across the road. On the doorstep, Bobble Hat was smoking. She scowled and brushed past him into the empty shop.
He followed her inside… and stood behind the counter. Catching her shocked look, he grinned.
*”Here. Bought this last week.”* She thumped the lamp down, radiating indignation.
*”Got the receipt?”* he asked, deadpan. *”No surprise you’re single. With that temper.”*
*”Who says I’m single?”* She bristled.
*”If you had a husband, he’d have fixed this—or brought it back himself.”*
*”He’s busy. Writing his thesis,”* she shot back. *”No receipt. So no replacement? I don’t want a broken lamp.”* She turned to leave.
*”Give me your address. I’ll fix it and drop it off. Or pop in tomorrow.”*
*”Like I’d carry this thing back and forth. Flat 96, across the road.”* She shoved the door open.
*”So that’s where I’ve seen him before—without the stupid hat. Clever eyes. Decent, too.”* She walked home, pleased he’d fix it for free.
In the hallway mirror, she studied herself—hat pulled low, dull eyes, tight lips. Shrunk, faded. No one at work had mentioned how awful she looked. So much for female solidarity.
*”My own fault he strayed. She probably gets her nails done, wears stilettos… Men love that. I live in jeans. Enough. Time to fix myself—just to spite him.”*
Next morning, she wore a dress, even mascara. Sophie gaped.
*”About time. Now change your hair.”*
Elaine turned. *”Your eyes are all sparkly. Met someone?”*
*”No one. Doing it for me.”* She fluffed her hair. *”Maybe a haircut?”*
At work, everyone noticed. Compliments all day lifted her mood.
Home again, she swapped her dressing gown for jeans and a T-shirt. Peeled potatoes. Her ex hated onions, garlic—afraid of bad breath. *”His little angel probably lives on air.”*
She chopped onions. Soon, the flat smelled of frying potatoes. Sophie appeared instantly.
*”What’s the occasion?”*
*”No reason. Start the wash, will you? Don’t forget the pod.”* Elaine took pickles from the fridge.
As the potatoes simmered, the doorbell rang. The shopkeeper stood there—no bobble hat this time. She barely recognised him until she spotted the lamp in his hands.
*”You?”*
*”Evening. Fixed your lamp.”* He handed it over.
She didn’t miss his swallow, how his eyes darted past her toward the kitchen.
*”Come in. Dinner’s ready—least I can do.”*
He didn’t refuse. Inside, he took off his coat.
*”Where can I wash up?”*
*”Bathroom.”* She flipped the light—and recoiled. The floor was flooded with soapy water.
*”Step aside.”* He rolled up his trousers, kicked off his socks, and waded in, shutting off the valves. *”Bucket and cloth.”*
She rushed to obey, even sacrificing an old dressing gown for rags. They mopped up together.
*”Neighbours haven’t complained, so it hasn’t leaked through. Probably a cracked hose.”* He called a mate who fixed washing machines.
As he phoned, Elaine studied him, grateful he’d come just then.
*”Sorted. My mate’ll stop by tomorrow.”* He pocketed his phone.
*”Thank you.”* She smiled.
*”You’**Final sentence:**
Over warm apple crumble and tea, as Sophie chattered about summer plans, Elaine caught Malcolm’s quiet smile—the kind that made her wonder if, just maybe, “never again” didn’t have to mean forever.
