I MISSED MY DESTINY
They say looking for love at work is not a serious endeavor. I wasn’t looking, though. It found me. And not in the form of a charming coworker with a cup of tea and a tie, but as a silent man in a black Ford in the petrol queue. I worked at a service station.
At first, he just looked at me silently. Then, he began to smile. And then, it seemed he learned my schedule and only came when I was on shift. My name was Lisa. I was 33. I was quite the character: a platinum blonde, bold, straightforward, with a personality sharpened in a male-dominated environment. And he… he was different. Forty-two years old, with eyes the color of a February sky, shoulders that could seem to knock down walls. And that smile… warm, gentle, a tad boyish.
His name was David. He lived close to the petrol station with his son and a dog named Rocky. The son was from a previous marriage. His wife had left both of them. He didn’t work. He was a landlord, receiving income from four flats inherited from his grandmother and just lived life. He traveled, strolled, and relaxed.
One day, he pulled up to the pump and said, “Let’s go; I’ll show you a city you’ll fall in love with.” And then there was another city. And another. We drank ale in half-empty pubs, stayed at seaside inns in the off-season, slept to the sound of waves, wandered through markets in London and Bath, and listened to jazz in Manchester.
I fell in love. I simply melted into him. I, who always remained independent and didn’t believe in cliches, was living with him within three months. We didn’t make anything official, we were just together.
At first, I talked about having a child. I dreamt about it. I imagined us walking together, the three of us: him, me, and the little one. But David was adamant. He said he had done the “fatherhood stint” and wasn’t signing up for round two. Most importantly, children hinder freedom.
“You can’t just fly to Edinburgh for a weekend with a baby, Lisa, and pushing a pram down the pavement? That’s not freedom, that’s confinement.” He said it so calmly, confidently, it was like I was hypnotized into fearing a future child.
Years passed like that. I became a peroxide servant in his carefree life. I cooked, ironed, bought his favorite cheeses, laughed in the right places, and he… He watched more football, lazily flipped through the newspaper, and said I was “the one.”
His son grew up. Initially, he despised me. Then he began to take an interest. And then he brought home a girl—just like I was six years ago. Young, lively, blonde. She stayed over, laughed at my jokes, called me “Li.”
I watched her and understood everything. I wanted to shout: “Run! Don’t miss your life like I did! Don’t fade away, don’t lose your voice, don’t abandon your dreams. You can still change everything!”
And me? I don’t believe anymore. I’m 39. No children. I quit my job, lost friends, and my parents are gone. There’s just me, David, Rocky, and a rusting love that’s long turned into habit.
He still doesn’t work. Still collects rent from the flats, still drinks ale every evening. And I, just as always, place a salad in front of him and wait. Wait to feel like not all is lost. But it’s self-deception.
Sometimes at night, while he sleeps, I step out onto the balcony and look at the sky. And it feels like if I wish hard enough, maybe I could still change everything. But it’s too late. Far too late.
