No Happiness in Solitude
Regina Whitmore, no longer young but with a sparkle in her eyes, washed her teacup after breakfast, brewed a fresh pot of coffee, and glanced out the window.
“Years pass, and everything stays the same. The clock, the windowpane, the open book on the sill—and the loneliness. How I miss my husband, who left me too soon,” she often thought.
Ten years had passed since she buried her beloved husband. The pain had faded, but the solitude never grew easier. At first, she’d felt his presence, as if he were still beside her—but that, too, had slipped away. One day, she noticed it and sighed.
“Loved ones don’t leave the house. They just fade quietly from the soul—given enough time.”
Lately, the loneliness weighed on her. She’d even considered finding another widower. Regina observed the men in her neighbourhood with quiet curiosity, lingering on their faces, wondering.
“Maybe there’s someone else like me—another lonely soul. What if…?” The thought made her forget her solitude, imagining instead a shared silence, a gentle melody stirring in her weary heart.
She’d noticed the retired colonel in the next building. Her friend Evelyn lived on his floor, and her husband, Harold, often fished with him.
Evelyn had spoken of him before.
“Edward is widowed too, you know. He has a daughter, but she lives far off and visits rarely. Such a serious man—though Harold gets on with him. They laugh together, even. Why not meet him, Regina? Why walk hand in hand with loneliness when you could walk with someone?”
“I don’t know, Evelyn. How would I even approach him? Besides, a man should make the first move,” Regina replied.
She’d been raised that way—a former English literature teacher, refined, well-read. Conversation came easily to her.
Edward Whitaker—tall, lean, silver-haired—carried himself with military precision. Regina often watched him pass by, nodding as he greeted her with the same crisp, “Good day.”
She’d reply politely, sometimes holding his gaze a second longer. He never seemed to notice. The neighbourhood gossips, however, had plenty to say.
Mrs. Higgins claimed, “That colonel had a head injury in the war—can’t feel a thing!”
“Rubbish,” interrupted Valerie, another retiree. “My son says it’s from years of staring through scopes. That’s why he wears glasses.”
And then there was Gladys, newly retired and “actively looking,” who whispered, “I’ve heard he’s—well, incapable. No wonder he avoids women.”
Regina pondered him too.
“Edward keeps to himself. I wonder what he does alone. Reads? Watches war films? I rather like those myself. If so, we’d have that in common. And poetry—I do love a melancholy verse.”
She sighed.
*”The twilight falls. The air is cool, the rain is light. I wait for none. You will not come…”*
The phone startled her. Evelyn’s voice chirped through the line.
“Regina! What are you up to? Don’t tell me—buried in a book?”
“Guilty as charged,” Regina laughed. “What else is there to do in the evenings?”
“Well, I’m calling because—have you forgotten? My birthday’s tomorrow!”
“Oh, Evelyn! My mind’s gone to mush. Of course I’ll come.”
The next evening, Regina studied herself in the mirror. A few lines, a little softening here and there.
“Elegance has its age,” she reassured her reflection.
At the party, she spotted Edward among the guests. Evelyn, grinning, guided her to the seat beside him.
“Good evening,” Regina murmured.
When she entered, she swore his gaze flickered over her—just once—before he turned away.
Harold, ever the host, kept the room lively. Across from Edward sat Theresa, a plump, rosy-cheeked widow who’d long fancied him. She’d even baked him pies. “Delicious,” he always said.
Regina noted the way Theresa gazed at him—adoring, possessive—and felt an odd pang.
Music swelled. Couples danced. Regina waited, hoping Edward might ask her—but Theresa tugged him up first.
Regina pretended not to watch. Theresa clung to him; Edward endured it. When the dance ended, he settled beside Regina, his thigh brushing hers. She met his warm brown eyes and felt her pulse stutter.
“Forgive me,” he murmured.
“It’s quite all right,” she said softly.
The next song began. Edward stood before Theresa could seize him.
“May I?” He offered his hand.
Her heart soared.
He led with a soldier’s precision, pulling her close at every turn, whispering compliments.
*”Goodness, his hands are strong. That smile—I’ve never seen him smile before!”*
Theresa’s glare burned into her back.
*”Look at her, twirling in his arms. As if he’d ever fancy her!”*
Edward noticed none of it. His heart, long dormant, stirred to life.
*”I thought I’d turned to stone. Yet here I am—blood racing, heart singing.”*
As the party wound down, he guided Regina to the door.
“Allow me to escort you,” he said. “Or—perhaps you’d like to see my flat?”
She longed to say yes. Instead: “Another time.”
He nodded. “Another time.”
The night was warm, fragrant with lilac.
“Shall we walk?” he asked.
*”How did he know?”*
They strolled for hours. By the time they reached her door, she was the one who invited him in.
Evelyn and Harold exchanged knowing glances as they left.
Later, Harold chuckled in bed. “So the old colonel’s still got fire in him. All that gossip—‘shell-shocked,’ ‘useless’—ha! A determined woman can thaw any man.”
Regina and Edward walk together most evenings now, arms linked. Theresa sulks. The colonel, it turns out, is rather tender after all.
