In your garden

Reaching out for Vivienne
For about two years I watched you in the garden. Blue jeans, wavy golden hair. Small I thought. Quite petite. Your husband had a dark beard and looked like a wrestler. Then you were all by yourself. From my window, behind my lace curtains I continued to watch. That’s when I sent you the note. A mysterious note, from a stranger. Your next-door neighbour rang pretending to be you. After a short chat you came over for coffee but I blew it all when I tried to kiss you before you left. You wrote me a letter to say you didn’t want anything more to do with me.
I was working in a lonely Signalbox. My own fault. I wouldn’t have chosen a job like that. Most of my time was taken up lifting weights. You rang me again a few weeks later to invite me round for a meal: “Just as friends!”
I helped you do some artwork for the kids at school and went round a couple of times a week. You were lovely. A friend of Suzanne Dando.
I don’t know what went wrong after that.
I think the chap next door put me off.
A few months passed and then my name appeared in the paper.
I was cycling up to the gym when I saw you in the distance coming towards me. You smiled, a sort of awkward smile and you were shaking your head at me. Your eyes looked red and you looked as if you had been crying. That was thirty years ago, so why did you suddenly appear in my thoughts?

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