Never Again
Elaine stopped by the shop after work. She didn’t feel like cooking, but she had to feed Daisy. She grabbed a packet of spaghetti and some sausages—her daughter had preferred them to anything else since she was little. A loaf of bread and a carton of milk completed the haul.
A short queue had formed at the till. In front of Elaine stood a burly man in a black jacket and a striped knitted hat with a bobble. “Young man wearing that ridiculous thing. Probably knitted by his doting wife. Women do love to make their husbands look like buffoons—keeps other women at bay. Bet he’s got the face of a child,” she thought, glaring at the garish hat.
The man turned, sensing her stare. Elaine quickly looked away. “Not bad, actually. Doesn’t look like an idiot,” she conceded, a little less harshly. He glanced back at her again.
“You’ll drill a hole through me with those eyes,” he said.
“Not much to look at. Got nothing better to do,” Elaine muttered irritably.
The queue didn’t budge. A slow simmer of frustration rose in her. That stupid hat… She wanted to dump her shopping and leave, but there were no other shops near her flat. “Men always take forever at the till. He’ll ask for cigarettes—oh, no, not *those* ones, the *other* ones. Then spend ages fumbling for coins instead of getting them ready like a normal person,” she mimicked in her head, sighing loudly.
Just as predicted, the man at the till wrestled coins from his tight jeans pockets. Elaine exhaled pointedly.
“In a hurry? Go ahead,” said the Knitted Hat Man, stepping aside.
Elaine shrugged and took his place. Finally, he scraped together the right amount, bagged his few groceries, and left.
Now it was Elaine’s turn. The cashier scanned her items while she fruitlessly dug through her handbag for her card.
“Could you hurry up? Should’ve had your money ready,” someone grumbled behind her.
“Lost your card?” the Knitted Hat Man asked, smirking.
Elaine ignored him, still rummaging.
“I’ll pay,” he told the cashier.
“No!” Elaine flushed, shoving her card at the reader. “Found it. Sorry.”
She shoved her groceries into the bag and hurried out. “What’s wrong with me? Why do I care about his stupid hat? Let him wear it. I’m turning into a bitter shrew.”
“All his fault. We were happy—or was that just me? He left me for some silly tart who got knocked up. Played the gentleman, married her. Never mind that *my* daughter grows up without a father. And me? Nearly forty. Forty! God, that’s old…”
“At least he left us the flat. Bought his way out. Cheers for that. Why do we women suffer like this? Same story for all of us. A handful don’t stray, or they’re clever enough to keep it hidden. At forty, they all want something young and shiny. What’s left for us?” Her internal monologue spiralled as she fought back tears.
She reached her building and pressed for the lift. It groaned to a stop, the doors shuddering open to reveal a dishevelled drunk stumbling out. Elaine stepped in, grimacing at the stench of stale booze and cheap cigarettes. “All the same—boozing or womanising. Can’t stand them.”
The lift jerked to her floor. Keys clattered in her coat pocket, snagging on her gloves. Finally, she unlocked the door…
Daisy sat at her desk, doing homework. She glanced up at her mother with something between irritation and disdain.
“Mum, I need money for the theatre. School trip on Saturday.”
“I’ll make dinner,” Elaine said, retreating to the kitchen.
“More money. Like I’ve got stacks of it. One salary now—rent, food… Counting every penny.” She filled a pan, complaining silently to no one.
“Mum? The theatre?” Daisy hovered in the doorway, finger wedged in her book.
“Fine, I’ll take it out tomorrow,” Elaine sighed, not turning around.
Daisy vanished.
“Let’s see how long *he* lasts. She won’t stay young forever. A baby’ll ruin her. No time for herself, sleepless nights… And he’s not exactly young either—over forty. Serves him right. Should be thinking of grandkids, not new babies. God, why am I still thinking about him?”
After dinner, she switched on her desk lamp. It flickered, buzzed, then died. “Perfect. Bought it a week ago. What a day.” She twisted the bulb—nothing. “I’ll return it tomorrow. If I can find the receipt.” She couldn’t, of course.
Next evening, Elaine lugged the heavy lamp to the electronics shop across the road.
On the steps out front stood *him*, smoking. She scowled and marched in.
The Knitted Hat Man followed, slipping behind the counter. Catching her astonished look, he grinned.
“Bought this last week,” Elaine snapped, slamming the lamp down.
“Got the receipt?” he asked, deadpan. “No wonder you’re single. With that temper—”
“Who says I’m single?” she spluttered.
“Got a husband, he’d be here fixing it himself.”
“He’s busy. Writing his thesis,” she lied. “No receipt. So, no refund? Useless.” She turned to leave.
“Give me your address. I’ll fix it and drop it off. Or come back tomorrow.”
“I’m not hauling it around. Flat 96, across the road.” She shoved the door open.
“Didn’t recognise him earlier. Not wearing that stupid hat. Clever eyes. Decent, maybe.” She was glad he’d fix it—for free.
At home, she studied herself in the mirror. Downtrodden, dull-eyed, lips tight. No one at work had said a word. So much for sisterhood.
“My own fault he strayed. She’s probably got inch-long nails, sky-high heels… Men love that. Me? Stuck in trousers. Enough. Time to change. *For me.* Let him think I’ve moved on too.”
Next morning, Elaine wore a dress and mascara. Daisy gave her a startled look.
“Didn’t know you owned a dress. Hair next?”
Elaine turned.
“And you’re glowing. Met someone?”
“No. Doing this for *me*.” She tilted her head at the mirror. “Maybe a trim?”
At work, colleagues noticed. Compliments all day. Her mood lifted.
At home, she swapped her dressing gown for jeans and a tee. Peeled potatoes. Her ex wouldn’t eat onions or garlic—afraid of bad breath. His precious new girl probably lived on air.
Elaine chopped onions. Soon, the flat smelled of frying potatoes. Daisy appeared instantly.
“What’s the occasion?”
“No reason. Start the washing machine, will you? Don’t forget the pod.” Elaine fetched pickled gherkins.
As the potatoes simmered, the doorbell rang.
The electronics shop man stood there—no hat this time. She only recognised him by the lamp in his hands.
“You?”
“Evening. Fixed it.” He handed it over.
She noticed him swallowing, his gaze darting past her to the kitchen.
“Come in. I’ve got dinner. Least I can do.”
He didn’t argue. Shrugged off his coat.
“Where’s the loo?”
“Down the—” Elaine flicked the light on and recoiled.
The floor was flooded.
“Move.” He rolled up his trousers, kicked off his shoes, and waded in, shutting off the valves. “Bucket and cloth.”
Elaine obeyed, tearing an old robe into rags. They mopped up together.
“Neighbours haven’t complained—leak’s new. Hose must’ve split. I’ll call my mate, he fixes washing machines…”
While he phoned, Elaine studied him. Lucky he’d come now.
“Right. He’ll pop round tomorrow.” He pocketed his phone.
“Thanks,” Elaine smiled.
“You’re different now. Lovely smile. Name’s Alfred. Old-fashioned.” He dried his hands, watching her.
“Elaine.” She hung the towel up.
“Haven’t had potatoes and gherkins in years,” Alfred said through a full mouth.
“Wife only feeds you meat?” Daisy asked bluntly.
“No wife. Married young—lasted six months. ‘Irreconcilable differences.’”
“Who knitted the hat, then?” Elaine blurted.
“Ah. Mum. She died last spring.”
“Sorry.” Elaine exchanged a glance with Daisy.
Later, after Daisy left, Elaine cleared the table.
“Her dad left you?” Alfred asked.
“Yes. Younger woman. Baby on the way,” she admitted.
“You’re still young yourself.” He stood. “Best be off. Don’t forget—the repairman’s coming tomorrow.”
ElElaine watched the door close behind him, the ghost of a smile lingering as she realized, for the first time in years, that she wasn’t dreading tomorrow.
