Oh, you’ll love this—I’ve got this lovely little story about a woman named Evelyn Whitmore. She’s not exactly young, but there’s still a sparkle in her eyes. Every morning, she washes her teacup after breakfast, brews a slow cup of coffee, and gazes out the window.
“Same old view, year after year,” she thinks. “The clock, the windowpane, the open book on the sill… and the loneliness. How I miss my husband, gone so soon.”
It’s been ten years since she buried him. The grief softened with time, but the solitude never got easier. At first, she’d swear she felt his presence—like he was still there. Then, one day, she realised: “The ones we love don’t leave the house. They just fade quietly from our hearts.”
Lately, though, the loneliness weighs heavier. She even toyed with the idea of finding someone—another lonely soul like hers. Evelyn would glance at men in the neighbourhood, weighing possibilities without hurry. “Maybe there’s a man out there, just as adrift as I am,” she’d muse, and for a moment, she’d forget the emptiness, imagining sitting beside someone, a gentle melody stirring in her weary heart.
There *was* one man—Colonel James Harrington, retired, from the next building over. Her friend Margaret lived on his floor, and her husband, Geoffrey, often went fishing with him. Margaret had nudged Evelyn more than once: “James is a widower too, you know. His daughter lives abroad—hardly visits. Serious sort, but he cracks a joke with Geoffrey now and then. Really, Evelyn, must you always walk arm-in-arm with loneliness?”
Evelyn would sigh. “Oh, Margaret, how could *I* approach him? A woman shouldn’t make the first move.” She was a former English literature teacher, after all—refined, well-read, and of a certain age.
James was tall, lean, silver-haired, with glasses. He walked stiffly, knees barely bending, like he was still on parade. But there was something about him. Evelyn always watched discreetly as he passed, nodding when he tipped his hat with a crisp, “Good day.”
The neighbourhood gossips had theories. Old Mrs. Higgins swore he’d suffered a head injury in service—”No feelings left in him!” Mrs. Walters scoffed: “Nonsense! It’s his eyesight—all those years squinting through binoculars.” Then there was Brenda, newly retired and *very* determined: “Rumour is, he’s *lacking* in… certain areas. Explains why he never glances at women.”
Evelyn wondered too. “What does a man like that do alone? Read? Watch war films?” (She adored war films—common ground!) Or maybe poetry—”The light fades. A chill, a drizzle. Few pass by the alleyway. I wait for no one. You won’t come…” She smiled wryly. “Why do I love poems about loneliness? Sentimental fool.”
Then one evening, the phone rang. Margaret’s voice bubbled through: “Evelyn! Guessing you’ve got a book in hand?”
“Spot on,” Evelyn laughed. “What else is there? TV, the odd scroll online—but you know me.”
“Listen—tomorrow’s my birthday. You’d forgotten, hadn’t you?”
“Oh, Margaret! My scatterbrain—of course I’ll come!”
The next evening, Evelyn studied her reflection—fine lines, a little sagging. “Elegant ageing,” she told herself, smiling.
At the party, her heart leapt—*James was there*. Margaret, grinning, seated her right beside him. Across the table, Brenda (plump, ruffled dress, *very* attentive to James) shot her a glare.
As music played, Brenda lunged for James’s hand, but he stood first—offering it to Evelyn. “May I?”
Her pulse raced. He danced with military precision, pulling her close at turns, murmuring compliments. *His hands are strong. That smile—why’ve I never seen it before?* She forgot the room, till she caught Brenda’s venomous stare: *That frumpy thing thinks she’s won*.
James noticed nothing. Seven years alone, and suddenly—*blood singing, heart pounding*. “Thought I’d gone stale,” he mused.
Later, he guided Evelyn out. “Allow me to escort you. Or… my flat’s just there.”
She declined—*too soon*—but agreed to a stroll. The air was sweet with lilac. He walked her home, and this time, she invited him in.
Upstairs, Margaret and Geoffrey exchanged looks. “Told you,” Geoffrey chuckled. “All that gossip—‘shell-shocked,’ ‘impotent’—rubbish. A determined woman can thaw any man.”
Now, Evelyn and James walk arm-in-arm most evenings. Everyone’s delighted—except Brenda.
Turns out, the Colonel’s rather tender after all.
