I Hope He Earns Her

I was sitting next to her in the restaurant. We were with friends.

          ‘You look like a girl I used to study with in Brighton,’ I told her. ‘Her name was Jerusha; she was a bit taller than you, and older; plumper, too; but she was beautiful. She used to wear jewels on her forehead, and she’d have that, erm, that ink that Hindus wear. Erm –‘

          ‘Henna?’ she said.

          ‘Yes! That’s it! She’d have henna on her forehead, too.’

          She looked slightly beguiled. Puzzled. She wore that wonderful smile, those big, open, eager, excited eyes. But she was not mine.

          I changed the tone: ‘But you’ve got a good thing going with Andrew,’ I said. ‘I remember once, after two bottles of wine and a few Desperados, he told me he knew my heart; he told me I wanted to paint lilies, and make beautiful things.’

          ‘He did?’ she said.

          ‘Yes,’ I said. I smiled, knowing my hands could never reproduce something as fair and elegant as her. I leave things too late. Loneliness is my thing: it drives whatever it is I do. I wish I could tell her how I feel, but I’d only break her heart and confuse her.

          I don’t want to move her stone.

          I hope they stay together. I hope he makes her life beautiful. I hope he earns her.