Never Again
After work, Helen stopped by the shop. She didn’t feel like cooking, but she had to feed Lucy. She grabbed a pack of pasta and some sausages—her daughter had loved them since childhood. She also picked up a carton of milk and a loaf of bread.
A small queue had formed at the till. In front of Helen stood a burly man in a black jacket and a knitted beanie with a pom-pom. “A grown man wearing that silly hat. Probably made by his doting wife. Women do have a way of making their men look foolish to keep others from looking twice. I bet his face is just as ridiculous,” she thought, staring at the garish striped beanie.
The man turned and caught her staring. She quickly looked away. “Well, he doesn’t look like an idiot,” she conceded grudgingly. He glanced back at her again.
“You’ll burn a hole through me with those eyes,” he said.
“As if there was anything worth looking at. Got nothing better to do?” Helen muttered irritably.
The queue wasn’t moving. Her annoyance grew. That stupid hat… She nearly left her shopping behind, but there were no other shops near home. “Men in queues always take forever. He’ll dither over cigarettes next—‘Give me the blue pack with the red stripe. No? Then the white ones with the green label.’” She mimicked him silently. “Then he’ll fumble for change. Why can’t they just be ready?”
Sure enough, the man at the till hiked up his jacket and dug through his tight jeans for coins. Helen sighed loudly.
“In a hurry? Go ahead,” said “Beanie Man,” stepping aside.
She shrugged and took his place. Finally, he paid, packed his modest haul, and moved off.
It was Helen’s turn. The cashier scanned her items while she rummaged through her handbag for her card.
“Can’t you hurry up? Should’ve had your money ready,” someone snapped behind her.
“Lost your card?” Beanie Man asked, sharp-edged.
Helen ignored him, still digging.
“I’ll pay,” he told the cashier.
“No need!” Helen’s face flushed. “Found it. Sorry.” She tapped her card, relieved.
She grabbed her bags and hurried out. “What’s wrong with me? Why do I care about that stupid hat? If he likes it, let him wear it. I’m so bitter these days.”
“All because of him. We had a good life—or did I just imagine it? He left me for some silly girl who got pregnant. ‘Did the right thing’ and married her. Never mind that Lucy grows up without a father. And I’m nearly forty. Forty! God, that’s old.”
“He kept paying the mortgage, at least. Small mercy. Why do we always suffer for them? Same story everywhere. A few don’t cheat—or are smart enough not to get caught. At forty, they chase young things. What’s left for us?” Helen’s silent rant nearly brought tears.
She entered her building. The lift creaked open, releasing a dishevelled drunk. She stepped in, wrinkling her nose at the stench of cheap beer and cigarettes. “All the same—boozing or womanising. Can’t stand them.”
The lift jerked to her floor. At her door, she wrestled her keys from her coat pocket, gloves threatening to drop. Finally, the lock turned.
Lucy sat at her desk, homework spread out. She looked up, eyes cool.
“Mum, I need money for the theatre. School trip Saturday.”
“I’ll make dinner,” Helen deflected, heading to the kitchen.
“More money. As if I print it. One income now—mortgage, groceries, counting every penny.” She filled a pan, complaining to the empty air.
“Mum? The theatre?” Lucy stood in the doorway, finger marking her page.
“I’ll get cash tomorrow,” Helen sighed, not turning.
Satisfied, Lucy vanished.
“Let’s see how long his new bliss lasts. She won’t stay pretty forever. A baby’ll ruin that. Sleepless nights, no time for herself. And he’s no spring chicken—over forty! Serves him right. Granddad age, chasing toddlers. Why do I even think about him?”
After dinner, Helen turned on her desk lamp. It buzzed, clicked—then died. “Perfect. Bought it a week ago. What a day!” She tried a new bulb. No luck. “I’ll return it tomorrow. If I kept the receipt.” She hadn’t.
Next evening, Helen lugged the heavy lamp to the electronics shop across the road.
On the step stood Beanie Man, smoking. She shot him a scathing look and entered the empty shop.
He followed—and walked behind the counter.
“Bought this last week,” she snapped, slamming the lamp down.
“Got the receipt?” He didn’t blink. “No wonder you’re single. With that temper.”
“Who says I’m single?” She bristled.
“If you had a husband, he’d fix this.”
“He’s busy. Writing his thesis.” She lied smoothly. “No receipt, no exchange? Fine.” She turned to leave.
“Give me your address. I’ll fix it and drop it off. Or collect it tomorrow.”
“Why drag it back? Flat 96, opposite the road.” She shoved the door open.
“So that’s where he works. Didn’t recognise him without that hat. Clever eyes, though. Decent.” She walked home, pleased—free repair.
In the hall mirror, she studied herself: hat low, dull eyes, pinched lips. “No wonder he left. That girl probably wears nails and heels. Men love that. I live in trousers. Enough. Time to change. Spite him. Let him think I’ve moved on too.”
Next morning, Helen wore a dress, mascara. Lucy gaped.
“About time. Now change your hair.”
Helen turned.
“Eyes sparkling. Met someone?”
“Just for me.” She checked the mirror. “Maybe a haircut?”
At work, compliments flowed all day. Her mood lifted.
Home in jeans and a tee instead of her usual robe, she peeled potatoes. Her ex hated garlic—afraid of bad breath. His “angel” probably lived on air.
Helen chopped onions. Soon, the flat smelled of frying potatoes. Lucy darted in.
“What’s the occasion?”
“No reason. Start the wash, will you? Don’t forget the capsule.” Helen took pickles from the fridge.
As the potatoes simmered, the doorbell rang. The shopkeeper stood there—no beanie this time. She barely recognised him until she saw the lamp.
“You?”
“Evening. Fixed it.” He handed it over.
She noticed him swallow, his eyes darting past her.
“Come in. Dinner’s ready. Least I can do.”
He didn’t refuse. Inside, he asked, “Where can I wash up?”
“Bathroom.” She flicked the light—and recoiled. Soapy water covered the floor.
“Step back.” He rolled up his trousers, kicked off his socks, and waded in, shutting off the pipes. “Bucket and cloth.”
She obeyed, tearing an old robe for rags. They mopped up quickly.
“No leaks downstairs yet. Hose probably cracked. I’ll call my mate—he fixes washing machines.”
As he phoned, Helen studied him, grateful he’d come.
“Right. He’ll check it tomorrow.” He pocketed his phone.
“Thank you.” She smiled.
“You’re different now. Lovely smile. I’m Mark. Old-fashioned name.” He dried his hands, watching her.
“Helen.” She hung the towel.
“Haven’t had spuds with pickles in ages,” Mark said through a full mouth.
“Your wife only feed you meat?” Lucy eyed him boldly.
“No wife. Married young—lasted six months. ‘Irreconcilable differences.’”
“Who knitted the hat, then?” Helen blurted.
“The hat? Oh… Mum. She died last spring.”
“Sorry.” Helen exchanged a glance with Lucy.
Later, dishes cleared, Helen sat opposite Mark.
“Her dad left you?”
“Yes. Younger woman. Baby on the way.” She didn’t know why she said it.
“You’re young too,” Mark said, rising. “Best be off. Thanks for dinner. The repairman’s coming tomorrow.”
She saw him out, washed up, and stared blankly at the telly. Her ex wouldn’t have fixed anything—just told her to call someone. And mopping? Never.
“They’re all nice at first. Helpful, flowers. Then it fades. Sofa, telly, ignoring you. Then they stray. He’ll be the same. No more men. Nothing but trouble.”
That night, the bed felt cold and lonely. She buried her face in the pillow, cursing her ex.
Outside, the last winter month raged. Soon, spring… summer… Once, staring out, Helen dreamed of the sea. Then she noticed—the electronics shop’s light was off.
“Ill?She hesitated for just a moment before grabbing her coat and stepping out into the snow—because sometimes, against all odds, happiness comes knocking twice.
