Weekender Magazine: Love Story (A Romance Competition)

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I was one of four runners up in a recent competition for the Weekender magazine. It was open to all ages, so for a sixteen year old's work to be considered "beautifully handled" by the judge was fairly impressive, in my opinion. Here's a copy of the entry:

Standing Up

Let me introduce myself. I’m Sandy and I’m not as crazy as everyone seems to think. Trust me, I’m not. I know that
starting with this statement might give you the wrong idea, but I thought you
might like to know before you get too comfortable that I’m not a complete lunatic.

I’ve been waiting here for at least an hour and a half. Even the waiters are looking at me like I’m insane. I’m on to my fourth glass of red and I haven’t even ordered
a meal yet. I thought it would be rude to order before Harry arrived but he
obviously doesn’t have a problem with rudeness. Keeping a girl waiting for an
hour and a half is beyond rude. At
least it is in my opinion.

He definitely told me Saturday night, right?

My fourth glass of wine is just a red stain in the bottom of the glass now. Should I order another? Or should I order something to eat? Or should I just give up?

It’s so hard to find a nice, single man at my age. Even my son has a better love life than I do. He’s been with his girlfriend for seven months. If only I could be so
lucky. She seems like a nice girl. Her parents are still married, so there’s no
chance of me hooking up with her father. Not that I think of every man my age
as a potential love interest. Okay, maybe I do. I’ve even been assessing the
waiter. He might have the personality of a fence post but he has lovely eyes.

“Another glass, ma’am?” Speak of the devil, he’s back again. I want to say yes but there’s no point waiting for a date that’s never going to show up.

“No thank-you. I’ll just pay for what I’ve had. I don’t think my date is coming.”

“Oh, that’s too bad ma’am. I’ll bring you your bill.” He looks down his nose at me. I’ve been taking up a seat in his busy, snooty restaurant to do nothing but drink wine.
Maybe he doesn’t think I’m crazy. Maybe just pathetic. I could’ve at least
ordered some bread. I thought I might’ve had a chance with Harry, but again I
was wrong. Does that make me crazy?

What’s a suitable tip these days? I’m not feeling particularly generous in my current mood. I’ll just throw in a few extra coins and be on my way before he checks. I
probably can’t drive after all that alcohol either. Joy.

I open the door only to be assaulted by a sudden onslaught of rain. I’ve been sitting in this terribly expensive restaurant, Harry’s idea, for so long that the weather has
completely changed without my knowledge. No, he definitely told me Saturday
night. I was definitely stood up.

To make matters worse, I don’t even have an umbrella. I have to wait for a taxi in the rain because I drank too much and I don’t want to be charged for driving under the
influence on top of everything else that has happened tonight. Now where am I
going to get a taxi? The only place to store a phone in this dress is my
cleavage so I didn’t bother and I really don’t want to walk back inside and ask
the waiter for one. I somehow doubt a taxi will conveniently drive past. I’m
kilometres from home. Maybe I should just risk it and drive. Or sit in the
gutter and cry.

Somehow the latter of those options sounds the most appealing, probably because it involved less effort. Sitting in the gutter, the water rushes past my feet. Actually it
rushes all over my feet, ruining the only high heel shoes I own. High heels
aren’t the most practical of shoes when you are a mother and you’ve been
divorced for years. God, I don’t even remember how many years anymore. Surely I
should have a boyfriend by now, right? I mean, there have been men but never
for more than a few months. I hate to say it, but my son and his girlfriend have
better communication than I have ever had with anyone.

Oh my God, I am jealous of my own son.

And I’m still being rained on.

And my shoes are ruined. My dress probably is too.

I rest my head in my hands, blocking out the rest of the world. Then suddenly the pounding rain stops, as though somebody flicked a switch. But I can still hear it. That
doesn’t make sense.

I open my eyes and look around. No, it is definitely still raining. But I can’t feel it. Maybe I am crazy. “I don’t know if it helps
much though – we’re both already soaking wet.” Okay, and now I’m hearing
voices. I get it universe, I’m a lunatic and I don’t deserve to have a man who
actually cares about me.

I look up to see a shadow holding an umbrella over my head. He’s soaking wet and the rain is pounding down on his suit and tie. Who is this man and why does he care if I
get wet? My feet are still being bombarded with water.

“I saw you in the restaurant. I’d hate to see this pretty dress go to waste.” My dress is already streaked with water and my shoes are a mess of mud and leaves.

“Everything’s already ruined.”

“You still look beautiful to me.” Somehow, even after my terrible evening of failed dating and inconvenient rain, I still have the dignity to blush. He laughs and, unless I’m
mistaken (which wouldn’t surprise me) he doesn’t seem to be laughing at me. I giggle awkwardly as he sits
down in the gutter beside me. He stops bothering with the umbrella.

“The rain’s nice.” His leather shoes are now blocking the mud and debris from my own high heels.

“Oh yes, definitely. Nothing like sitting in a gutter on a night like tonight.” We laugh again. He reaches out and holds my hand. I don’t even know this man’s name yet
we officially have a more intimate relationship than I’ve had with anybody in
months. I’m still studying the gutter. I don’t want to look up and realise I’m
hallucinating. It wouldn’t surprise me if I was.

“So why all dressed up? I’m guessing you didn’t put on this stunning dress to drink wine on your own in a restaurant like this one.”

“I was supposed to be meeting someone. I was stood up.”

“Then he doesn’t deserve someone as beautiful as you.”

“I’m drenched.”

“I know.” His smile is so casual, as if this is what he does every Saturday night. People have been looking at us strangely. I might be crazy, but at least I’m not crazy
and alone. He squeezes my hand.

“I was stood up too.” It’s only then that I really look at him. He’s dressed in a lovely suit with a ridiculously red tie.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been so concerned about myself that I didn’t even notice.”

“That’s okay. It was only a second date. There must’ve been a better offer.”

“I’ve never met an offer better than you.” Yet another mistake to add to my list? Where on earth did that sentence come from? It wasn’t too tacky, but much too forward. I
barely even know this man! I don’t even know his name and yet I’m practically
throwing myself at his feet. He’s still holding my hand.

“I’m glad that your date didn’t show up.” I look up at him. I realise I’ve been staring at his tie for too long. One hand still holding mine, he touches my cheek.

“This really is a lovely gutter.”

“Brings out the blue in your eyes.”

“My eyes are brown.”

“I know.” I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much. I’m doubled over against the concrete with his arm around my back, both of us laughing so hard that tears are
streaming down our cheeks with the pouring rain. “Would you like me to drive
you home? I didn’t drink quite as
much as you.”

“Sounds great.” I’m still grinning like an idiot. He helps me up and places his soaking wet coat around my shoulders. This makes me laugh all over again. What is wrong
with me? I’m hysterical. My night has been one mistake after another, I’ve
looked more like a lunatic than ever before, and yet here I am with this
handsome man’s coat around my shoulders and my hand in his. Not to mention that
we’re both dripping wet now. Absolutely soaking. We’re going to destroy his
car, but he doesn’t seem to care at all.

Even though I live kilometres away, much too far away to walk comfortably, it feels like we’ve barely turned a corner before I had to tell him we were beside my driveway. I
didn’t want to leave this man so suddenly. I don’t know the first thing about
him.

“Would you like to come in for a coffee, or a hot shower, or to blow dry your clothes?” It’s his turn to laugh and I feel proud that I can still be funny.

“All of the above. But first, we need to get rid of this dirty laundry.”

“Excuse me?”

“Anybody over the age of twenty-five has a secret or two, a skeleton in their closet, something they’d try to avoid talking about on their first date.”

“Oh, I see.” I blush again. I’d misunderstood.

“I’m just skipping the trauma of the second date by clearing the air now.”

What? So that he can ruin what little fun I’m having even sooner than expected? I take a deep breath. He’s right. It will all come out sooner or later. Why not sooner. “I’m
divorced and I have a teenage son. He lives with me for twelve days of every
fortnight.”

“That’s not a skeleton, that’s a joy.”

“Or sometimes a pain. It really depends on the day.” He laughs again, but he doesn’t run. Not even a flinch. “What about you then? What secrets are you hiding?”

He pauses a moment, wondering how to explain his life simply. The car is silent. All I can hear is the rain. “I had a wife once. She left me. We never had children, but
my brother is practically a child anyway. He’s an addict and is in a clinic.
Depression, anxiety, paranoia and a whole range of withdrawal symptoms. I’ve
been his guardian since we were young. He’s the only family I have.

“But he’s recovering. There’s joy there too.”

“One day there will be.”

“What’s your name?”

“Michael.” He’s handsome and kind and he doesn’t think I’m crazy. He doesn’t mind my family and I don’t mind his secrets. This has to be too good to be true.

“Well then, Michael, come inside. I hope you don’t mind a little mess.”

“But wait - what’s yours?”

“I’m Sandy.” And I’m not as crazy as everyone seems to think.