The Blue Vein
Oh, how William adored her. He’d lose his wits, standing beneath her window late into the evening, his heart leaping if he caught even a glimpse of her silhouette. She seemed untouchable, beyond reach. Her fragile frame stirred something tender in him—the pale, delicate skin through which faint blue veins traced like threads. He could scarcely breathe from the sheer force of his affection.
At the school Christmas ball, he finally asked her to dance. Eleanor was shorter than him, making the steps awkward. His hands trembled, his forehead grew damp with sweat, and his palms burned where they rested on her waist. The rush of nerves made him flush with shame, knowing she must feel it too. When the music faded, he stepped back, relief washing over him as he gulped in air.
It baffled him why other boys didn’t see her as he did.
Thomas, for instance, fancied sturdy Margaret with her long, powerful legs. When Margaret ran on the field during games, towering over the other girls, her high ponytail swung like a pendulum.
To William, Eleanor was perfection—slender, ethereal. She haunted his dreams, an obsession bordering on sickness. His mother didn’t share his infatuation. “Pretty enough,” she’d say, “but frail. I don’t know what he sees in her.” She confided as much to his father.
“Something must be done. He needs to forget that waif. They’re ill-suited. Who knows what goes on in her head? Too delicate, too otherworldly. What sort of wife would she make? And that name—foreign-sounding, out of place here. Persuade him to study elsewhere—London, perhaps. Just get him away from her.”
His father agreed. Over a manly talk, he extolled the opportunities of London—the prestige of its universities, the bright future that awaited. He even offered to cover the tuition if William missed the scholarship. And William, dutiful, agreed.
In his dormitory, he pinned up a photograph of Eleanor, blown up from a class portrait. But she remained at home, and he was young. He gained experience, courted other girls, yet the memory of his fragile schoolmate lingered in his dreams.
Then he met Catherine. With her, his hands didn’t shake. His mind stayed clear. They understood each other effortlessly. She was steady, reliable. Eleanor’s image drifted to the edges of his mind.
After graduation, William married Catherine and settled in London. His mother rejoiced. “Far better than that odd Eleanor.”
A year later, their daughter Sophie was born. William was besotted. A mere sneeze from her, and he’d have roused every doctor in the city. Eleanor remained a distant dream from his schoolboy years.
Then, one day, his mother called. “Your father’s been hospitalized. They’re operating. Come home, just in case.”
Sophie had a cold, so Catherine stayed behind. No need to drag them into it. William took unpaid leave and went alone.
London saw him off with a dreary drizzle, but his hometown welcomed him with golden leaves and crisp autumn sun. His father, ever stoic, refused to fret.
The surgery went smoothly. His mother kept vigil, leaving William adrift. With the danger past, he could return to his girls—his name for Catherine and Sophie.
He walked home from the hospital, no need to hurry. The fear had lifted, and the autumn air, sharp with leaves and earth, steadied him.
A young woman paused ahead, bending over a pram. His heart knew her before he did.
“Hello,” he said, approaching.
Eleanor straightened, recognized him, smiled. He took in the familiar narrow face, the translucent skin, the same distant, melancholy gaze.
“Visiting your parents? On holiday?” she asked.
“My father’s just had surgery.”
“Nothing serious?” Worry flickered in her eyes.
“All fine now. And you? Yours?” He nodded at the pram.
“Mine.” The way she said it told him she wasn’t married.
Pity gripped him. He longed to cradle her face and kiss her right there on the street. He walked her home, asked after old classmates, shared his own news unprompted. Helped her carry the pram inside. She still lived in the same flat—her parents had moved to their country cottage.
“Drop by sometime,” she offered at the door.
He considered going up then and there but held his tongue. As ever, she felt just out of reach.
The next morning, he and his mother returned to the hospital. His father looked better, even cracking jokes. His mother stayed, so William bought roses and went to Eleanor. She wasn’t surprised, only hushed him—her daughter slept.
“Hungry? Tea?” she asked in the cramped kitchen, arranging the flowers.
“Nothing. Mum’s been force-feeding me.”
Her nearness set him alight. The old tremor returned. She set the vase down, her face suddenly close. His eyes caught the blue vein pulsing at her temple.
He couldn’t resist. He kissed it. She froze, then turned, winding her slender arms around his neck, clinging like a reed to an oak. He lifted her onto the table’s edge—
A cry from the bedroom. She pushed him away, leaped down, fled to her child. Shaking off the spell, William exhaled sharply. He left the kitchen. Eleanor stood in the dimness, her daughter in her arms, tears glistening on tiny cheeks.
“I should go,” he rasped.
She nodded and saw him out. As he opened the door, her quiet voice stopped him:
“She’s asleep by ten. Come after.”
He turned sharply. Her eyes held despair and hope.
Walking away, he wrestled with himself. Years ago, he’d have leaped for joy. Now, he knew his life wouldn’t survive it unchanged. Regret gnawed at him—if not for the child, she’d have yielded right there. Once, she’d seemed untouchable. Or was it just him she’d kept at bay? He thought of Catherine. With her, all was simple.
At home, he showered, drank coffee, clarity returning. He wouldn’t go. What would he tell his mother? Then doubt crept back—the vein, her gaze.
His exhausted mother returned. “Your father ate well. He’ll be fine. No need to linger—you’ve work, a family.”
Decision made. He left that night, first stopping at the hospital. His father, alert, frowned.
“Leaving so soon?”
“Work calls. Sophie’s ill. Catherine said her fever broke.”
“You should’ve told us! Why leave them?” His father sighed. “Ah, your mother—always the worrier.”
“Still good to see you. We’ll visit once you’re home.” He kissed his father goodbye.
On the train, William pictured Eleanor at her window, waiting in the dark.
*This isn’t betrayal,* he told himself. *That wasn’t me in the kitchen—just the boy who’d weaken at the sight of her. I love Catherine. I love Sophie.* His thoughts turned to them. The rhythm of the rails lulled him to sleep.
At dawn, he arrived home. Catherine, surprised, brightened. Sophie woke and hurled herself into his arms. “Daddy!” He inhaled her sweet scent, smiling.
*My home. My family. Where I’m wanted, where all is clear.*
At Christmas, they visited his parents. Out walking, they passed Eleanor, her daughter rosy-cheeked in the pram. William fell back, wished Eleanor a happy New Year, then hurried to catch up with his girls.
Now, he couldn’t fathom why he’d once ached for her. He regretted his recklessness yet was glad he’d turned away.
Eleanor would remain—a luminous, aching memory of a first love never to be rekindled.
