Southend U3A

Valentine's Day - Maureen Rampersaud

January 2011

Suzie ducked behind the bush again, yet another member of Brad's family strode purposely from the house. How many brothers had he got, for goodness sake?

She looked down at the mauve envelope and traced his name lovingly with her finger. There it was, that old familiar ache when she thought of him.

Suzie heard the door close again. It was him this time - black hair curling against his collar, high cheekbones, full lips - everything was in slow motion, like some soppy film.

Brad swung his school bag lazily over his shoulder. He ambled along the path so . . . so . . . gracefully, effortlessly coordinated, like a wild, African cat.

Her heart was hammering in her chest. She had held her breath too long . . .

'I mustn't faint.' she repeated in her head. The possible scenario was too terrible: she keels over, Brad discovers her clutching a Valentine's card with his name on it. He looks at her and sneers, 'You must be joking!' The thought made her feel small, inadequate and definitely undesirable.

Suzie took three deep breaths, relieved that her worst nightmare had been averted. Brad slammed the gate and disappeared up the road.

How could she be so stupid as to think he would ever like her? She pushed the card into her blazer pocket and darted out of the gate.

She jumped on to the bus, slumped in the seat and closed her eyes tightly. The familiar motion of the bar started to calm her.

'Just made it then!' Her eyes snapped open like a doll's. There was Brad in the seat next to her.

'I normally walk, but I decided to take the bus today.' He was looking right into her eyes.

'Oh . . . oh . . . ok.' she stammered helplessly.

'Yes, there's someone who gets this bus and I particularly wanted to see her today.' He was still staring intently at her. Surely it couldn't be . . .

'It's strange,' he murmured softly, 'I found this envelope addressed to you.'

Shyly, but small confidently, she took the envelope out of her pocket.

She smiled, 'That's a coincidence . . .'