Words I've Waited For

Just one look at the penmanship, --- a solitary glance at those loopy, almost oblong letters, a furtive regard at the doughy circles dotting the small I’s --- and I feel a million glass butterflies flutter as they’re compacted inside of my stomach, their fragile, delicate wings catching on every tissue and cutting my insides. I’ve waited countless mornings of teardrops splattering into my tea, years of watching the postman like a hawk, for this blush-coloured piece of paper. Now, that it’s in my hands, her name resounds in my head once more, triggering reels of memories to be loaded in the cinema in my mind.

Anita Bowden. Anita Bowden of the long, luxurious burnt umber locks. Anita Bowden of the meadow eyes that glimmered like gems when talking about her work as a fashion magazine editor. Anita Bowden of the hairpin smiles every time she unleashed a razor-sharp comeback during our hours of banter, swinging in each other’s arms, and champagne-infused kisses over supper. Anita Bowden, whose hand I’ve held in the streets of the Latin Quarter, on the sands of Phuket, and on an Alpine ski lift…the same one that left a massive gap in mine the day she walked out the door without warning, her fuchsia suitcases rolling, two decades ago.

I swallow a gulp as I plunge into the words I’ve waited for twenty years to read.

**

Dearest Harold,

How are you? I do hope you’re well, Harry Hare. If there’s anyone that deserves all the flowers that the lush gardens of the life could offer, it truly is you.

Goodness, it’s been so long, hasn’t it? I wouldn’t know it, though, if I could be perfectly honest. Sure, the last time I heard that low, comforting velvet drone of your voice, we were so young. The world was still opening itself up like an oyster when we opened our hearts and selves up to each other. However, to me, all of it seems like only yesterday. The feeling of weightlessness from laughing because of one of your witty quips, inhaling the clean, almost marine scent of your aftershave as our hungry lips explored each other’s skin, our bodies undulating on a brightly lit dance floor and, after, in bed in the glow of a honey-tinged moonlight --- all of that is fresh in my consciousness as the break of day. I guess that’s because all those memories have you marinated in them, and my soul won’t ever forget you.

**

Almost half of my lifetime, that’s precisely how much I had been agonising as I searched for even just one clipped, curt sentence from Anita. All this time, I held a glass of whiskey in hand as I recalled her aria of a chuckle, her petunia lipstick leaving a mark on my mouth as I blissfully drowned in her scent of pear and freesia, her pirouetting in my arms feeling like the entire universe had fallen away. 

Twenty years, and Anita is still dancing in my mind. I just never knew that I was doing just the same in hers.

**

Harold, do you know that every time I’m on the beach, I think of you? Yes, every single moment that I feel that familiar powder touch of sand, the rough tickle of stone, leading to a brilliant, cool ocean, the first thing I picture is your aquamarine eyes and that shy grin as you and I raced across shores all around the world.

My favourite of these moments, though, is when you brought me back to Paignton to introduce me to your parents and your sister for your birthday. Oh, the candy floss-hued house façades, the vibrant emerald of the hills, the bubbly peals of children’s laughter as we passed by the fun rides of the pier, your meaty hand in mine as we strolled the coast, your mum’s tight embrace as she welcomed me for the first time to a Turner family dinner --- how all of them will never be washed away by the tides of time. No, I’m not going to ever let the memory of us two on a picnic blanket, plates of salty fish and chips on our laps and a little wooden cottage filled with love and our children near the waterfront in our plans, dissolve like seafoam. As far as I know, the waves will always resemble your smile.

Will anyone please take me back to that?

**

Until now, that trip back to my hometown plays on loop in my mind. I could still visualise in full, high-definition detail Anita’s marigold flounced sundress floating in the wind, her striding along the sable surface like a golden fairy. Just reading those words, and suddenly, I taste the acrid burn of the malt vinegar on those battered haddock pieces, see the explosion of fireworks in vermillion and chartreuse in my vision when her delicate, milky hand caressed mine. Once again, my toes squelch in Paignton’s seaboard as I imagine two chocolate-haired tykes with jades that stare back at me.

Yes, I want to come back to all those pelagic moments.

**

Of course, I just can’t help either ruminating on that glorious, magical night in Montmartre. Yes, I could still hear the enchanting sound of the accordions serenading us in that bistrot, taste the rich, bold flavours of pears poached in red wine and, especially so, your soft lips on mine.

You asked me to pack that long, pistachio wrap dress, the one you adored and always said was the perfect pair to my eyes, for the night. When we boarded the car you’d hired and handed me a bouquet of bright pink tulips, I should have known you would make that evening sparkle forever in my mind…. for many reasons.

Little did I know that you asked owners of every single shop we passed by on the way to the Sacré Cœur to hand me even more blooms to add to the cornucopia in my arms. Little did I know that you hired a string quartet to play our song, ‘That’s All’ by Johnny Mathis as we twirled on cobblestone streets. Little did I know that hidden in the pocket of your tweed trousers was the art deco emerald engagement ring that’s been with your family for three generations.

Of course, I had to leap into your arms and pepper your handsome visage with kisses to respond with a resounding yes. That night, hand-in-hand, we walked into a future more glittering than the lights of The Eiffel Tower.

**

I can’t help stifling the smile creeping on my face like a vine as I travel back to my hands wringing in nervousness as we took that Eurostar to Paris. I’d planned how to ask Anita to be my wife for five long, gruelling months. I’d thought of everything: from the reservations for a table in the City of Lights’ hot new eatery to the pine-coloured buttons of the quartet’s jackets. It all became worth it, though, as I slipped that family heirloom on Anita’s delicate left ring finger. As I stared into her green eyes, I couldn’t help seeing forever in them.

It was perfect…. until it wasn’t.

**

… and then, I had to go ruin everything, didn’t I? 

I don’t know what came over me to even think of leaving you, breaking up with the man I know I’ve waited all my life for, and going with Jamie Ormond. How could I fly away from the person who makes me feel like I’m soaring for he who treated me as a mere trophy in his cupboard? Harold, you had given me a universe of the brightest stars. Did I really give it up just because Jamie promised me an editor-in-chief title?

I’m so very sorry. Harold, I know I hurt you when out-of-the-blue, I walked away from you. That’s what cuts me into a million pieces, to know that I had brought so much pain to you who had offered me nothing but the purest of joy. You have every right to hate me, but I do hope you could forgive me. 

**

I haven’t forgotten either the sting of watching Anita roll those suitcases out of the flat we shared with nary a word to explain her departure. I tried to dig in, find the well of statements that desperately wanted to revive the tree of our love. In the end, though, my throat was as dry as the Sahara. Right before my eyes, she was gone, and I watched my insides shrivel up and wither.

For years, I waited for even just a single syllable from her, a breathy sound to tell me that she wanted me back. Of course, the whites of my eyes had overtaken the blue and still, no missive came for me. 

Until now. Of course, though…

**

It’s probably too late, though. Yes, I saw your photo with Kate on The Telegraph. 

Kate Parsons. I never thought you’d marry her, the girl your parents had always pushed you towards. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. Beautiful Kate with her fair hair and stunning amber eyes. Intelligent Kate with her double master’s degree in linguistics and art history. Kate, the best-selling author whose novels barely stay on the shelves at Waterstones before being sold out. Kate, the chairperson of a charity that gives scholarships to promising teenagers so they could pursue a career in the arts.

I could see why you love her. That wide grin in that newspaper image tells me that next to her, you are as boundless as the sapphire ocean…and that any chance for you to come back to me is lost like sand washed away by the tide. 

But if ever you change your mind, if that seaside cottage and you and I strolling on the shores is still fresh in your memory, I will be here. 

Harold Arthur Turner, it’s you I’ve waited for; I could wait a lifetime more to have another shot with you.

Drowning in a sea of regret,

Anita

**

I glance at the chrome frames in my office’s bookshelf, all chronicling a quarter of a century of one woman standing by my side like a pillar withstanding the crests and troughs of time.

Kate. The woman I admittedly started going out with in a desperate move after Anita left, but whose calm, steady presence had made wildflowers of affection grow in my heart. The rich, nourishing soil I’ve rooted myself in, fully knowing her soft, silken voice and those large aureate eyes will always be my home. My bedrock that no waters could erode.

Kate, the woman I choose. Kate…

‘Uhm, Harold?’

I turn towards my beautiful wife in her favourite dress with the delicate fern fronds printed on it. Her long, blonde waves are coiffed perfectly without a single strand out of place. In her hand is a sheet of folded lavender paper.

‘Hey, you’re going somewhere,' I ask.

‘Yeah, Tom’s in town. Remember him? Tom Selfridge, my…uh…best mate? Well, he wants to meet up at Sudeley’s for a catch-up supper.’

‘Oh, that’s nice of him. Do give him a hello from me.'

‘I…uh…will.’

‘Hey, your eyes, they look a bit red. What’s going on?’

‘Oh…uh...I…have allergies…yeah... allergies. Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.’

‘Okay, well, I hope you’ll soon be on the mend, darling. I guess that’s why you’re not wearing your wedding band. You don’t want to aggravate your condition?’

‘Y-yeah. That’s… that’s precisely it. I just want to take precautions.’

‘Well, have fun, okay. I’ll be here, waiting for you.’

‘I…I’m sure you will be.’