The Lonely Years: Six Years Without the One She Loved.
Emily felt utterly exhausted. She had been alone for six long years since her husband left. Her daughter had married the year before and moved away to another city.
At forty-two, Emily was in the prime of her lifea second youth, they called it. She was an excellent homemaker, a brilliant cook; her pickled cucumbers and tomatoes were legendary among friends. But what was the point now? Rows of empty jars gathered dust on the balcony.
“Am I really going to waste away alone, still so full of life?” shed say to her friends. Theyd reply, “Dont be silly! There are plenty of single men out there.” One of them suggested she try the agency *Best Man Forward*. Emily hesitatedwasnt it desperate, a bit embarrassing? But then again, forty-two loomed over her like a shadow. The antique clock on the wall ticked away the hours, each chime echoing her loneliness.
So she went.
A pleasant woman in raspberry-framed glasses greeted her: “We only deal with the finest. Lets have a look at the database togethertake a seat.”
“All very handsome,” Emily admitted with a faint smile. “But how do you really *know* if someones right for you?”
“Simple,” the woman said. “We offer a one-week trial. Enough time to decideyes or no. Do you continue, or do we move on?”
“A trial?”
“A man!”
“How does that work?”
“Exactly as it sounds. He lives with you for a week. Listen, were not here for shy brideswere talking business. No time-wasters, no oddballs.”
Emily was intrigued. Together, they picked five candidates. She paid the modest fee and hurried home. The first was due that very evening.
She slipped into a green dressthe colour of hopeand dusted off diamond earrings she hadnt worn in years.
*Ding-dong.*
Emily peeked through the peephole. Roses. Her heart leapt. She opened the door to a man as elegant as his photo.
They sat at the table, Emily having prepared a feast. She placed the bouquet at the centre, stealing glances at her charming guest. *This is the one.*
The first bite of salad made him frown. “Too much vinegar.” Emily forced a smile, serving him roast pork instead. He chewed slowly. “Tough.” Nothing pleased him. In her fluster, she forgot the winecarefully chosen, now poured hastily. “To new beginnings!”
He sniffed the glass. “Cheap swill.” Then he stood. “Lets see how you live.”
Emily grabbed the roses and thrust them back. “I hate roses. Goodbye.”
That night, she criedjust a little. Four more meetings awaited.
The second arrived reeking of whiskey. “Evening!” He grinned. “Got a telly? Big match onUnited versus City. Well talk after.”
Emily stiffened. “Watch it at *your* house.”
More tears fell that night.
The third man was no charmerscuffed shoes, dirty nails, a shabby coat. Emily braced herself to send him away, but politeness made her offer a meal. He ate ravenously, praising her cooking between bites. She almost blushed. Then she brought out the pickles.
“My God!” he gasped. “Best thing Ive ever tasted!”
Then the clock chimed. He tilted his head. “Thats off.” Clambering onto a stool, he tinkered with the mechanism. “Got any tools?”
Soon, the clock ticked clean and sharp. Emilys heart swelled. A sign. He was kind, skilledso what if his shoes were muddy? That could be fixed. And three was a lucky number.
She readied herself for the nightfresh sheets, perfumed skin. But when she stepped out of the bathroom, he was already snoring, fully clothed.
Then the horror began.
The snoring was *epic*. She smothered herself with a pillow, then him, even rolled him onto his sidenothing worked. Dawn found her hollow-eyed at the kitchen table.
He yawned. “So, when do I move my stuff in?”
Emily gritted her teeth. “No. Youre lovely, but… *no*.”
The fourth, a bearded outdoorsman, reminded her of an old adventure film hero. She even let him smoke in the kitchen.
“Listen, love,” he said, tapping ash into her orchid pot. “Im a free spirit. Fishing trips, lads weekendsno calls asking where I am. Got it?”
Emily watched the ashes fall. “And other women?”
He winked. “Course. Freedom, innit?”
After he left, she aired the kitchen for hours. Her head throbbed. She didnt even bother washing the dishes.
Morning light spilled through the curtains, birds chirping merrily. Emily stretched. *Saturday.* No rush, no noise, no snoring. The dishes? Theyd wait. Peace. Freedom.
Then the phone rang.
“Emily! *Best Man Forward* here. Your final candidates tonighthes perfect, youll see!”
She nearly screamed into the receiver. “*Take me off your list! Delete me!* The best man is *no* man!”
And with a laugh, she threw open the curtains.
