Excuse Me, Sir, Please Don’t Push—Oh, Is That Smell Coming from You? A Chance Encounter at the Shop Leads Rita to a Down-on-His-Luck Stranger with Sapphire Eyes, a Hidden Past, and Handy Skills, Sparking an Unexpected Romance, Family Drama, and a New Beginning in Middle Age

Author Emily TaylorReading 13 min

Sir, do you mind not pushing? Goodness, is that smell coming from you?
Sorry, the man mumbled, shuffling aside.
And then muttered something else under his breath, quiet and unhappy. He stood there counting out coins in his palmprobably didnt have enough for a bottle, Rita guessed. She caught herself peering at the mans face. Odd… he didnt look drunk.
Sir… Im sorry, really. I didnt mean to offend you, she found herself saying, unable to simply walk away.
Its all right.
He met her gaze then, his eyes a piercing blue, clear and alive. He seemed to be about her age, give or take. Remarkable… shed never seen eyes like those, not even in her youth.
Rita took his arm gently and led him away from the small queue by the self-service till.
Has something happened? Do you need help? She did her best to mask her discomfort.
Rita finally realised the smell wasnt alcohol, just old perspiration clinging to his clothes. He kept quiet, stuffing his hand with coins back into his pocket. Clearly, he was embarrassed to explain his troubles to a stranger, especially a well-turned-out woman.
Im Rita. Whats your name?
George.
So, do you need help? Suddenly, she felt as though she was forcing herself on him.
On a tramp, no less. But he darted a glance at her with those blue eyes, then quickly looked away, avoiding her gaze. Well, fine then. She was just about to walk off when he managed to speak.
Im looking for work, thats all. Do you know where a man might pick up a bit of cash around here? Something to do with repairs, maybe gardening, or odd jobs. Your village is big and nice, but I dont know anyone here. Sorry to bother you…
Rita listened in silence, and by the end, George was mumbling again, mortified. She wondered if she should let a stranger into her home. Only, shed just decided to get the tiling redone in her bathroom. Her son had promised to do it himselfDont get some clumsy handyman in hed saidbut he was always so busy at work.
Do you know how to tile? she asked George.
I do.
How much for a ten-metre bathroom?
He let out a whistle, clearly surprised by the size.
Id have to take a look first, but really Ill take whatever you think right.
George set to work and tiled the bathroom expertly. He first asked if he might take a showerRita was glad hed had the sense to ask. She even hoped, a little, that he hadnt brought any troubles with him into her home. She gave George some of her late husbands old clothes and washed his, which he hung to dry. In just a weekend he finished the jobremoved the old tiles, cleaned up properly, wiped down the tools and put them away exactly as they were. With the trowel and spatula in hand, by Sunday night the new tiles gleamed on floor and walls.
Rita felt a strange reluctance at the thought of George leaving. He looked homeless. Would it be irresponsible to let him stay an extra night? But sending him out at midnight felt harsh too.
She barely slept Saturday, locked in her room, ears pricked for any trouble. But George, evidently exhausted, slept soundly on the sofa in the lounge.
All done, Margaret! he called when the time came.
And truth be told, the work was flawless.
George, what did you do before? Rita asked, admiring the result.
Im a physics teacher. Graduated from Manchester, back when the polytechnic was still called that.
And the tiling?
Well, every respectable man should know how to do these things. Or so I believe.
She nodded, pulling out the amount shed set aside. She was fair, gave him what shed have paid a professional workman. George pocketed the cash without so much as counting it, and began putting his shoes on, already changed back to his own clothes.
Hang on! Youre just going to walk out, just like that? she said, a little put out.
Whats the matter? He looked up once again with those impossibly blue eyes.
At least have something to eat! You worked all dayonly had tea, and you didnt want to stop for more.
George hesitated, shifting his weight, then waved his hand in defeat.
All right. Ill accept. Thank you.
Rita ate a piece of fish with him, though normally she never touched food after six. She found his company quite pleasant. George was charming and good conversationclearly, a clever man. But lost, somehow. That cloud of lostness lingered around him; no shower or warm chat seemed able to wash it away. Maybe it just took time.
George, what did actually happen to you? she finally asked gently. Forgive my curiosity.
He went quiet, then replied:
You know, if I start explaining, itll sound dramatic, silly, maybe a bit contrived. Ive heard enough of those sob stories myself over the last eight years. But my sob story happened for real. Whats the use?
I just cant help wondering to meet a man like you in such a state.
George watched her closely, then, as though on cue, both stood at once. In the confusion, they crossed paths by the doorway and stumbled into each otherand then everything happened by itself. Rita had never imagined, at fifty-three, being swept away by something like this. Shed thought passion was for the young. But this was real passionhot, overwhelming, undeniable.
Later, George told her about what happened eight years ago. Hed tried to help one of his pupilsa gifted boy from a troubled family whod fallen in with a bad crowd. The boy was desperate to get out but couldnt free himself. So George, his form tutor, decided to confront the groups ringleader. A twenty-two-year-old thug with no conscience. They didnt even try to talk; they just attacked George. Luckily, George practised judo all his life, so he fended them off. But the ringleader hit the wall awkwardlybroke his back and didnt survive. George called the ambulance and the police, certain that, at worst, hed be charged with excessive self-defencebut what else could he do, being attacked by a gang?
He ended up doing time for manslaughter but was released four years early for good behaviour. Theyd sentenced him to twelve years in all.
There are people, even in prison, he said simply.
When he returned home, he found his mother had diedshed sold the flat and spent her last days with her brother. The brothers wife had immediately said, I wont have that ex-con in this house!
His own wife, of course, had long since divorced him and remarried. So he left Manchester for London, but luck wouldnt have him. Every time he looked for work, no one wanted a man out of prison. Hed tried getting odd jobs from people in the village where hed ended up by chancebut was met with suspicion, sometimes even hostility. Eventually, he had nowhere left to stay. The friend whod put him up at first politely asked him to move along.
How long has it been like this? Rita asked, watching the glowing tip of his cigarette.
About two weeks now.
They were her cigarettes; Rita had a pack lying aroundshe smoked, oh, once every five years or sobut George offered to buy his own, which she wouldnt hear of. Now she wondered what it would be like, living two weeks with nowhere to go.
Sitting together in the dark, by the ember-red light from a cigarette, it was easier to open up. George knew there was little point holding back now.
So, do you have a passport at least?
I do, he grunted, but no address. Thats most of the trouble.
George stayed on. Everything seemed to come togetherRita arranged him a temporary address, he found work, not as a teacher, but for the time being, as a clerk in the local hardware shop. But on weekendshis rota was two days on, two days offGeorge tutored for extra cash, gradually building up a few pupils. Two and a half months slid by peacefully, until Ritas son came to visit. Assessing the situation, he insisted on a chat outside the house.
Mum, you need to get rid of him.
What? Rita gasped, stunned. They hadnt meddled in each others lives in years.
Im telling you, Mum. Hes got nothing, nowhere else to go. You think hes here for love? Dont be daft.
Rita slapped Toms cheek.
Dont you dare. Dont you interfere in my life.
Mum, you forget Im your only heir. I dont want to be splitting anything with some random man. Marry him, and if something happens to you, hell have a claim.
Why are you burying me already? Rita shot back, wounded. Whats there to inherit? Ill outlive you yet!
Mum, dont make me do anything drastic. If you dont get rid of him, youll both regret it. Im just looking out for myself. If youd found a well-off, respectable man, Id say nothing. But this
Oh, so now respectable means rich? What happened to you? Is this what I taught you?
Mum, Ive said my piece. Ill be back in a week. Make sure hes gone. Or dont complain when things get ugly.
Rita held back tears as she stepped into the house.
Hes a copper? George asked.
Im sorry I didnt tell you
You dont have to explain yourself. Dont worry.
Hes a Crown Prosecutors investigator. Hes a good kid, George. Just overprotective. He worries.
What will you do? he asked her softly.
She sat at the table, lost. What should she do? Tom would make things miserable if he said so. Who knew what strings he might pull? Send George back to prison, if she didnt show him the door? Rita wanted to believe Tom wouldnt do something that drastic, but who really knew? He seemed more wound up than ever.
Spring is here, George said. Any ideas? If not, let me speak.
Rita nodded, wiping at her eyes. She couldnt bring herself to say goodbye to Georgebut didnt want either of them to fall foul of Tom, or battle her son.
Ive saved some money. Never mentioned it before, but Its not enough for a plot here, but about twenty miles out, we could just scrape by. Well put up a temporary cabin, start building a little house from scratch. Ill keep up with the tutoring, and we can make do without much else if need be. Ill build us a home myself. What do you think?
Rita sat, stunned. He looked anxious.
I know youre used to comfort. But this would be temporary. Once I have us settled, Ill make it right.
George I have savings too. I can help with the build, Rita said thoughtfully.
I could never ask you for that.
Youre not asking! Im offering. For us.
George came over to her at the table, held her gently, kissed the top of her head. Rita felt warmth, security, and lovewho would have thought it possible at their age?
Deeds done swiftlyGeorge insisted she held the title to the land, but Rita wouldnt hear of it.
Ive still got property, you know. Just because they pushed me out doesnt mean Ive lost it. But youve got nothing. Dont you worry about me. Ive got the worlds greatest heir! she said with a sarcastic smile, recalling Toms words.
They bought a cabin, set up electricity, and George rolled up his sleeves and started building. Ritas savings soon ran out, so George doubled down on tutoring, setting up a tiny corner where no one could tell he taught from a caravan. Every penny went into the house, brick by brick. On warm summer evenings, theyd stretch out a blanket on the grass of their plot and talk, gazing up at the stars.
How does it feel? George would ask, cradling her.
Like Ive found a second wind, Rita would reply.
NO, its me who has his second wind now, hed laugh. You should just feel my love.
And she did. She really did.
One day, Rita swung by her old house to collect warm clothes and bedding as autumn settled in. To her surprise, she found Tom in the kitchen, smoking.
Oh, hello, son. Im just grabbing some things. Hows work?
He eyed his glowing, tanned mother, clearly slimmer and lighter.
Mum, whats going on? You dont call.
Well… thats how we are, isnt it? Youre busyusually you call me.
Why cant I ever find you at home these days?
I dont live here any more. Just popping in for a few bits. Hope thats all right?
Tom just stared, speechless. His mother seemed transformednot just outside, but inside. Happier, somehow.
Son, once weve finished the house, Ill have you over for a proper visit. But Im busy right now.
She bundled up two bags of things, pecked him on the cheek as she dashed past.
Mum, whats happened to you? he called after her.
She turned from the door, beaming.
A second wind, Tom. Andoh, yeslove. Real love! See you, darling. She laughed and bustled out the house.
Time was shortthey were building the porch that evening.

And so it was, in a small English village, that Rita found her happiness not in riches, but in kindness, compassion, and a willingness to trust in new beginnings. Sometimes, its not money or inheritance that matters, but love, and the courage to start anew. For in opening her door, Rita had opened her heartand discovered that, regardless of age, its never too late for life to surprise you.

My Ex Invited Me to Dinner “to Apologise”… But I Came Bearing a Gift He Never Expected The invitation arrived on an ordinary day—which made it all the more striking. My phone buzzed while I was in the kitchen, hands wet, hair tied up hurriedly. Nothing in my world was prepared for the past. “Hey. Can we meet? Just for dinner. I need to tell you something.” I read the message slowly. Not because I didn’t understand the words. But because I could feel their weight. Years ago, I would have clung to that message like a lifebuoy. I’d have imagined it was a sign—the universe returning something it owed me. But I was no longer that woman. Now, I was a woman capable of switching off the lamp and falling asleep without waiting for anyone’s call. A woman who could be alone without feeling abandoned. A woman who no longer hands her peace to someone who once neglected it. And still… I replied. “All right. Where?” Only then did I realise: I hadn’t written “why.” I hadn’t written “what for.” I hadn’t written “how are you.” I hadn’t written “do I miss you.” That made me smile. I wasn’t trembling. I was choosing. The restaurant was one of those places where the light spills onto the tables like gold. Soft music, white tablecloths, expensive glass that sings quiet notes at a touch. I arrived slightly early. Not out of impatience. But because it’s always wise to have time to scan the room, find your exits, and arrange your thoughts. When he walked in, I didn’t recognise him at first. Not because he was different, but because he looked… tired. He wore a suit bought for a different man. Too much effort, too little ease. He saw me and his eyes lingered on my face longer than propriety allows. It wasn’t hunger. It wasn’t love. It was the awkward admission: “She hasn’t stayed put where I left her.” “Hi,” he said, his voice softer. I nodded slightly. “Hello.” He sat. Ordered wine. Then, without asking, ordered for me—the same thing I used to like. Once, that gesture would have warmed my heart. Now, it seemed like a trick. Men sometimes think that remembering your taste wins them a place at your table again. I sipped my wine. Slowly. No rush. He started with something that sounded “right”: “You’re very beautiful.” He said it as if waiting for me to melt. I smiled slightly. “Thank you.” And nothing more. He swallowed. “I don’t know where to begin,” he added. “Start with the truth,” I said, calm. It was a strange moment. When a woman stops fearing the truth, the man across from her starts fearing to speak it. He stared at his glass. “I messed up with you.” Pause. His words arrived like a delayed train—rolling in, but no one waiting on the platform. “How?” I asked quietly. He gave a sour smile. “You know.” “No. Say it.” He met my eyes. “I… made you feel small.” There it was. Finally. He didn’t say, “I left you.” He didn’t say, “I cheated.” He didn’t say, “I was afraid of you.” He said it plainly: He had shrunk me to feel bigger himself. Then he began to talk. About stress. About ambition. About how “he wasn’t ready.” About how I was “too strong.” I listened carefully. Not to judge. But to see if this man had the spine to admit his fault without using me as his mirror. And when he finished, he exhaled: “I want to come back.” Just like that. No warning. No shame. As if returning was his natural right once he’d said “I’m sorry.” And here comes the moment women know too well: when the man from your past returns, not out of understanding, but because he hasn’t found a softer place for his ego. I looked at him and felt something unexpected. Not anger. Not pain. Clarity. He returned not with love, but need. And I was no longer the solution to someone else’s need. The dessert arrived. The waiter set a small dish in front of us. He looked at me expectantly. “Please… give me a chance.” Once, that “please” would have shaken me. Now it sounded like a late apology to a woman who’s already stepped out. I pulled a small box from my bag. Not a store gift. My own box—simple, elegant, unadorned. I placed it on the table between us. He blinked. “What’s this?” “For you,” I said. There was hope in his eyes—a flicker of the hope that women are still “soft,” still willing to give. He took the box and opened it. Inside was a key. A single, ordinary key on a plain keyring. He looked confused. “What… is this?” I sipped my wine and said calmly: “It’s the key to the old flat.” His face froze. That flat… those were our last days. That was where the humiliation happened, the one I never told anyone about. He remembered. Of course he remembered. The last time, he’d said to me: “Leave the key. It’s not yours anymore.” He’d said it as if I was a thing, not a person. And that day, I’d left the key on the table and walked out. No scene. No conversation. No explanation. But the truth is… I didn’t leave it. I’d kept the spare. Not for revenge. Because I knew: one day, I’d need to put a full stop. Every ending needs a full stop, not an ellipsis. And there I was, years later. Same man. Same table. But a different woman. “I kept it,” I said. “Not because I hoped you’d come back. But because I knew one day you’d want me back.” He grew pale. Tried to smile. “Is this… a joke?” “No,” I answered softly. “It’s closure.” I took the key from his hand, closed the box, and put it away. “I didn’t come to this dinner to take you back,” I said. “I came to be certain of something.” “Of what?” I looked at him. This time, I looked without love or hate. As a woman who sees the truth, unflinching. “That my decision back then was the right one.” He tried to speak, but the words stuck. There was a time he was used to having the last word. Now, the ending was in my hands. I stood. Left money for my share of the bill. He rose sharply. “Wait… so that’s it? That’s how it ends?” I smiled gently. Almost tenderly. “No. This is how it begins.” “How what begins?” “My life, without your attempts to return to it.” He stood motionless. I took my coat, slowly, with grace. A woman shouldn’t rush in such moments. And just before leaving, I looked back. “Thank you for dinner,” I said. “I have no more questions. No more ‘what ifs’.” Then I left. Outside, the air was crisp. Fresh. As if the city whispered: “Welcome to the freedom you deserve.” ❓And what about you? If an ex returned with an apology and wanted a new beginning, would you give him another chance—or close the door with grace and dignity?