Years of Loneliness: A Six-Year Test Without the One She Loved.
Emily felt utterly exhausted. She had been alone for six years since her husband left her. Her daughter had married the year before and moved away to another city.
Emily was only forty-twoa splendid age for a woman. A second youth. She was an excellent homemaker, cooked wonderfully, and her pickled cucumbers with tomatoes were called a masterpiece. But why bother making them now? Rows of empty jars already stood on the balcony.
“Surely I wont wither away alone, looking this good!” Emily would say to her friends. Theyd reply, “Of course not! Find yourself a man. There are plenty of single ones about.”
One of them suggested Emily try an agency called “The Finest Gentleman.” Emily thought it sounded absurd and a bit embarrassinggoing to an agency. But then again, she was forty-two, and the number nagged at her. The old grandmother clock on the wall ticked away the wasted hours with a trembling chime.
So Emily went to the agency. A pleasant woman with strawberry-framed glasses said,
“We truly have the best. Lets look through the database togetherhave a seat!”
“Yes, theyre all handsome,” Emily smiled. “But how do you really know if a mans the one?”
“Its all arranged,” the woman replied. “We give you a week. Enough time to decideis he yours or not? Whether to continue or move on.”
“What exactly are you giving me?”
“A man!”
“How does that work?”
“Simple! He lives with you for a week. Listen, were not shy brides herewe speak plainly. No oddballs or lunatics in our books.”
Emily rather liked the idea. Together with the strawberry-spectacled lady, they picked five candidates. Emily paid a modest fee and hurried home. The first was due that very evening.
She slipped into a green dressthe colour of hopeand dug out diamond earrings she rarely wore.
Ding-dong! The doorbell rang.
Emily peeked through the peephole and saw roses. She nearly gasped with delight. She opened the door. The man was elegant, just like his photo.
They sat at the table, where Emily had laid out a feast. She placed the bouquet in the centre, stealing glances at her charming guest, thinking, “This is it. No need for the others. Him!”
They began with the salad. The prospective husband frowned. “Bit too salty, isnt it?” Emily faltered but smiled, serving him roast pork. He chewed a piece. “Tough…” Nothing else pleased him either. In her fluster, Emily forgot the wine shed carefully selected. She poured a glass. “To new beginnings!” He sniffed it, took a sip. “Cheap stuff.” He stood. “Well, lets see what your place is like…”
Emily picked up the roses and handed them back. “I dont actually like roses. Goodbye.”
That night, she shed a few tears. It hurt. But four more meetings awaited.
The second man arrived the next evening. He strode in confidently, reeking of whisky. “Alright, love?” Emily asked, “Have you mentioned our meeting to anyone?” He grinned. “Ah, dont fuss! Got a telly? Matchs onUnited versus City. Well talk after.” Emily snapped, “Watch it at home.”
More tears that night.
The third candidate came two days laterno looker, in a shabby coat, unkempt nails, muddy shoes. Emily already planned how to politely send him away but decided to feed him first. He ate hungrily, praising her cooking. She blushed. Then she brought out the pickles. “Blimey!” he cried. “Best Ive ever had!”
Just then, the grandmother clock chimed. He listened. “Whats that racket?” He marched to the bedroom, climbed onto a stool, and inspected the clock. “Ill fix this quick. Got any tools?”
Soon, the clock ticked clean and sharp. Emily was overjoyed. She took it as a signthis man should be hers. So what if his shoes were scuffed and nails dirty? He was kind, clever, and handy. Besides, he was the thirda lucky number.
That night, she prepared carefullya trip to the salon, fresh linen with embroidered roses (she did love them, after all). When she stepped out of the bath, he was already asleepstill dressed. She didnt mind. She gazed at him fondly. “Poor thing, worn out.” She slipped under the covers beside him.
Then the nightmare began. The handyman snoredloudly, masterfully, relentlessly. Emily muffled herself with a pillow, then him, even rolled him overnothing worked. She endured a sleepless night.
In the morning, he marched into the kitchen where a bleary-eyed Emily sat. “Well? When do I move my things in?”
She shook her head. “No, Im sorry. Youre lovely, but… no.”
The fourth man, bearded, seemed like a hero from an old adventure film. She even let him smoke in the kitchen. He took a drag and said, “Emily, lets be clear. Im a free spirit. Love fishing, lads trips. Hate being nagged’Where are you? Where are you?’ Deal?”
She watched as he flicked ash into her orchid pot. “Do you see other women?” He smirked. “Why not? Freedom, love. Perfectly normal.”
After he left, she aired the kitchen for hours. Her head ached. She felt drained, as if all life had left her. She didnt even bother washing the dishes.
The next morning, Emily opened her eyes. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, sparrows chirped. She felt… good. Saturday. No rush, no interruptions, no snoring or grumbling. Dishes? Shed wash them later. Peace and freedom.
Then the phone rang. “Emily! Its ‘The Finest Gentleman.’ Youve one more candidate todayremember? Hes wonderful, absolutely perfect for you!”
Emily nearly shouted into the receiver, “Take me off your list! Delete me! No more! The finest gentleman is the one who isnt here!”
And with a laugh, she drew back the curtains.
