It was simply a case of waiting for it to be over. I was thirty years old, I realized, and I had never walked hand in hand with anyone.
No one had ever rubbed my tired shoulders, or stroked my face.
I imagined a man putting his arms around me and holding me close when I was sad or tired or upset; the warmth of it, the weight of it.
“Eleanor?” Raymond said. “Sorry, I was miles away,” I said, sipping my Magners.
“Seems to be going well,” he said, gesturing around the room. I nodded.
“I was chatting with Sammy’s other son, Gary, and his girlfriend,” he said. “They’re a good laugh.”
I looked around again. What would it be like in future, going to events like this on the arm of the musician?
He’d make sure I was comfortable, dance with me if I wanted to (unlikely), make friends with the other guests.
And then, at the end of the evening, we’d slip away together, home, to nest like turtledoves.
“We seem to be the only people here who aren’t part of a couple,” I told him, having observed the other guests.
He screwed up his face. “Aye—listen, thanks for coming with me. It’s shite going to stuff like this on your own, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” I said, interested. “I don’t have a control situation to compare it with.”
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