An Evening Feast

Dear Diary,

Its been five years since my divorce, and I finally decided I was ready to give a serious relationship another shot. On paper Im the sort of bloke people find appealing: I own a modest terraced house in Sheffield, I have a steady job as a civil engineer, Im friendly and I consider myself decenthearted. I even have a nineyearold son, Oliver, whom I look after every weekend, and I get along peacefully with my exwife, Claire. All of that should paint a pretty decent picture, right?

Yet the reality turned out to be far messier.

At work the ladies seem to notice me, and the neighbours who live alone have taken an interest. They know Im reliable, calm and have no obvious vicesa good catch, they say. Im not exactly a rake, and I suppose being a single dad adds a point in their books. I even boast about spending quality time with Oliver, taking him to the park, the cinema, even the occasional football match.

Two dates later things started to look promising. We went to the theatre, caught a new film, and I thought maybe this could work. But the moment the conversation edged toward anything serioustalk of commitment, sharing a home, future plansI felt a lump form in my throat. I retreated into my own head, avoiding eye contact, hoping the subject would never surface.

The girls I was seeing werent blind to it. Hes ridiculous, one of them sighed over coffee, I told him I can cook well and earn a decent wage, that I wont be a burden, and he bolted like someone had an emergency. Another complained, I even have a flat and a decent look, but the moment I asked him to move in, he vanished like a gust of wind.

A younger colleague, Tom, overheard the chatter and couldnt help but mock us. Why are you bothering him? Hes already had a rough marriage, better off staying single. No one needs to call or nag him. If you want a night out, go to the pub; if you want fishing, take a weekend trip.

There was a grain of truth in Toms words. In the first three years after my divorce I spent a lot of time wondering why Id married so young, why Id dived headfirst into everyday chores at twentyfive. Id even drifted into a period of selfdestructionlate nights at clubs, onenight flings, bringing strangers back to my flat. After about a year that lifestyle grew stale, my spirit craved peace. A few unpleasant incidents followed: a woman Id let into my life swiped my wallet, a drunken altercation left me bruised near the lift. I resolved then to keep my dates short and safe, avoiding any surprises.

Life settled into an uneasy not bad, not great rhythm. Then a sudden jolt of clarity hit me: my exwife Julia wasnt the monster Id imagined. At first I resented her for keeping tabs on me after the split, for dressing up and seemingly thriving. But looking back, she was just trying to move on, as most people do. She wasnt greedy, just hopeful, and we both ended up with stable homes, enough money, and a decent son. I cant linger on regrets; I need to build my own future instead of flitting from one fling to another like a moth.

I catalogued the women Id metplenty of pretty, welloff ladies, even younger options. At forty I still look presentable: the gray at my temples gives a distinguished air, Im still fit enough to smile without looking tired. Yet none of them sparked any genuine feeling. My heart felt empty, as if Id been searching for warmth in a cold room.

So heres the picture: the women I know tend to disappoint; the strangers I might meet could have jealous husbands, noisy kids, or worse. Time is marching onIm not going to stay twentyfour forever. Id like a proper family, perhaps even another child, but I wont settle for anything just to fill a void.

Then, almost serendipitously, a work mate named Dave slipped a story about his sister into conversation. You wont believe itshes just arrived from London, slick car, looking for a quieter life away from the city buzz. Shes keen to settle down here, but shes a bit particular about men.

I laughed and, halfseriously, mentioned my own futile attempts at matchmaking. I get it. It sounds easy, but when you actually start hunting, its a nightmare. Look at your sistershell be hard to please.

Dave shrugged, Shes a handful. Shes got a taste for the finer things, dietobsessed, dresses like shes on a runway. Not exactly my style, but maybe you could help?

I decided to give it a go. We exchanged numbers, he promised not to pester me later, and set up a meeting at a modest bistro called The Spinach. I arrived fifteen minutes early, draped my coat over the rack, and sipped a black coffee while watching a few couples slip in. It was a Tuesday, so the place was quiet, the tables mostly occupied by older couples tucked into corners.

After half an hour I ordered a Caesar saladjust in case she turned up earlyand a glass of white wine to keep me company. I placed a second salad on the side just in case. I dialled her number, but it went straight to voicemail. I checked the door again; no sign of her. A brief flash of a girl peering through the window caught my eye, but she disappeared before I could wave. Maybe thats for the best, I muttered. If she had shown up, I might have been on edge.

I ordered a steak, opened my favourite music app, and tried to relax. Suddenly the chair opposite my table scraped back, and a drenched figure slumped into it. She was soaked from the rain, hair plastered to her cheeks, a leather coat dripping onto the floor. She looked bewildered, as if shed lost her train of thought.

I instinctively stood, offering my coat. She hesitated, then slipped it into my hands, still shaking. Im Laura, she said, voice soft. Ive been waiting outside, watching the street. Could I have some chips instead of the salad?

Of course, I replied, scanning the menu. Theres no chips, but we have a roast with potatoes and mushrooms. I gestured to the waiter, Could you bring her a coat hangers and a plate, please?

She dug into the Caesar with a vigor that suggested she hadnt eaten in days, washing each bite with generous sips of wine. I watched her devour it, feeling a strange mix of amusement and admiration. When she finally finished, she leaned back, sighing contentedly.

What a treat, she exclaimed, eyes bright. People work hard all week just to afford a decent meal like this. No need for fancy cars or big housesjust a good plate and a bit of company.

Her innocence reminded me of a childs joy. She talked about simple pleasures, about the comfort of a warm meal after a long shift, about how the world seemed to work better when you werent chasing status. I found myself puffing out my chest a little, as if I were the affluent knight she described.

She laughed, thanked me profusely, and stood to leave. Ive actually lost my phone, she said, a hint of embarrassment.

Lost it? How will I contact you? I asked.

She hesitated, then whispered, Maybe we could meet again tomorrow? Ill try to find a way. Her cheeks flushed.

I felt a sudden rush of hope. Laura, would you… could we see each other again? Id love to know you better.

She glanced around, then smiled shyly, Ill try, but Im not sure what to do with my number.

I left the restaurant with a feeling I hadnt felt in yearsa mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. The next day, I walked past a bustling bakery on the high street, halfexpecting to see her. Instead, a woman with bright white hair and towering heels strutted out of a sleek black car, muttering under her breath about another lazy bum. She glanced at me, sneered, and sped away. I laughed at the absurdity, then sighed, realizing Id probably never see Laura again.

She had come to this city almost by accidenther friends had coaxed her out of a small town, promising a life of glamour and big paychecks. Shed quit a job at a local clinic, moved into a cheap flat, and tried to make ends meet. Her mother constantly reminded her that she should have married by now, that a decent man would whisk her away. Shed been married once, but her husband left after a year, citing work overseas, leaving her with a cramped flat and a pile of debts.

By the time she stumbled into my life, shed sold her phone to pay rent, survived on leftover rice, and dreamed of a warm meal. Yet she kept moving forward, looking for a flicker of kindness in a world that seemed intent on ignoring her.

Now, as I sit back at home, the pantry filled with groceries I bought for her, I found a hastily scribbled note tucked in a bag: Come back tomorrow for dinner, same place, 7pm. S. It made me smile.

Im not sure where this will go, but for the first time in a long while I feel a genuine spark of curiosity and maybe, just maybe, hope. Ill see what tomorrow brings.

Simon.