It was early December and surprisingly it was
a quiet time in the shop of which I work,
which pleased me no end. Because I work in
a shop that sells mainly electronics and is
handily situated in a mega shopping mall, a quiet
time in the lead up to Christmas, [which, at times,
can seem like the most consumerist of holidays]
was a godsend.
This also allowed me more time
to talk to my new work colleague, and it was then
that we realised we had more than a slight
distaste in the frequency of our customers
We both, although still young in the eyes
of the world, had experienced the phenomenon
of one who got away, the love that, although we
were happy in the situations we were in, was
always lingering in the back of ours minds.
With him I found his story more interesting
than mine, I won’t go into it I’m afraid,
because although it was never said, I
feel he trusted me with the details of his
particular story. And I’m not going into the
particulars of my story on this occasion
because I don’t really want that person
realising who they are, if they ask I may be
inclined to tell them, but until then, my
lips and more importantly my writing
fingers are sealed.
But, move time forward to present day, which
for your information, is early August 2008. And
the stories that we had shared had just popped
back into my head. And it occurred that we
were, and are, way too young to be giving
anyone that is or was in our life’s, the prestigious
title of the one who got away.
I believe that I should be pushing about thirty in
a pub with a group of friends, necking cider,
much as I do now, telling stories of my twenties
and then, I’ll whip out my special story, well at least
to me, of the one who got away.
Because everyone has one of those stories,
stories of regret and passion, a decision made
that quizzes you even today with it’s ‘maybes’
and ‘could haves’. I think about these things
because when I’m older and I’m in that pub
telling the stories, the one who got away may
just be the one I’ve yet to get.
[word count: 388 words]