In solitude, there is no joy.
Not so young now but with a sparkle still in her eyes, Marjorie Winthrop washed her teacup after breakfast, brewed a fresh pot of coffee, and cast a glance out the window.
“Years and years of the same. The clock, the windowpane, the open book on the sill, and this loneliness. How I miss my husband, gone too soon,” she often thought.
Ten years had passed since she buried the love of her life. The pain had dulled with time, but solitude was harder to bear. In the early years, she could almost feel his presence beside her—until one day, she couldn’t. She noticed the absence herself and sighed, “The ones we love don’t leave the house—they simply fade from the soul, given enough time.”
Lately, the loneliness weighed heavier. She had even considered finding a companion—another solitary soul like her. Marjorie observed men discreetly, without hurry, letting her gaze linger here and there.
“Perhaps there is someone with the same fate, the same lonely heart. What if…” The thought alone distracted her from solitude, painting pictures in her mind of sitting beside a man, a gentle melody stirring in her weary heart.
She had, in fact, taken quiet notice of the retired colonel in the next building. Her dear friend, Evelyn, lived on his floor, and her husband, Geoffrey, often fished with him.
Evelyn had spoken of her neighbour before.
“Jonathan is alone too, dear. A widower. He has a daughter, but she lives far away, visits rarely. A serious man, but Geoffrey gets on with him. Jokes, fishing trips. Take a closer look, Marjorie. Why walk always arm in arm with solitude? Better hand in hand with someone.”
“I don’t know, Evelyn. How could I approach him first? And besides, shouldn’t the man take the lead?” Marjorie replied.
She was of that upbringing—once a teacher of literature, a woman of refinement, now in her twilight years. Well-read, always worth listening to.
Jonathan Whitaker was indeed a retired colonel—lean, tall, silver-haired, forever in spectacles. He walked stiffly, as if still on parade, barely bending his knees. Yet Marjorie found him intriguing. Whenever he passed by, she discreetly watched him, nodding as he greeted her with the same words:
“Good day to you.” And she would return the greeting.
Sometimes she held his gaze meaningfully, but he remained unreadable. The elderly women on the bench outside had plenty to say about him. “That colonel,” they whispered, nudging each other whenever he walked past.
Mrs. Higgins declared, “I heard he took a nasty blow to the head years ago in active service—lost all feeling, they say.”
“Nonsense!” interrupted Valentine, another retiree. “My son told me it was years of squinting through telescopes—ruined his eyes, hence the glasses.”
“Ach, I heard he’s not right in that department,” cackled Gladys, herself newly retired and rather too keen on finding a husband.
Gossip swirled endlessly. Perhaps because he was still unmarried, and women of a certain age were plenty. Marjorie, too, found herself wondering.
“What does such a man do with his solitude? Perhaps he reads, like me. Though a military man, likely prefers war films—I enjoy those myself. A shared interest, then. And I do love poetry—”
Dusk falls. A chill, light rain. The alley empty, footsteps rare. I wait for no one. You will not come.
She sighed. “Why do I love such lonely verses? Is it because I’ve been alone so long, or am I just sentimental?”
And so Marjorie lived, until the telephone startled her one evening. It was Evelyn, cheerful as ever.
“Marjorie, darling! Guess what you’re doing—sitting with a book, I’ll bet!”
“Spot on,” Marjorie laughed. “What else is there? The telly, the internet—but books, you know my weakness.”
“Well, Geoffrey and I were just plotting. Have you forgotten? My birthday’s tomorrow!”
Marjorie gasped. “Oh, Evelyn, I’m such a goose! Thank goodness you reminded me.”
“Come round tomorrow. Just a small gathering—friends, a bit of supper.”
The next evening, Marjorie studied herself in the mirror. A few lines here, a softness there. She smiled. “Not so bad—just a woman of a certain grace.”
When she arrived at Evelyn’s, the guests were already seated—and there, to her delight, sat the colonel.
“Marjorie, darling!” Evelyn steered her firmly to the seat beside Jonathan.
Across the table sat Theresa—plump, jolly, clad in frills that fluttered with her every breath. She, too, had long set her cap at the colonel, even brought him pies now and then. “Very good,” he’d say, nothing more.
Marjorie noticed how Theresa gazed at him, felt a small pang, then brushed it away.
Toasts were made, jokes shared, then Geoffrey put on music. Couples rose to dance—all but Marjorie, who waited. Would he ask her? But Theresa was already tugging at his sleeve.
She looked away, though her eyes betrayed her. The colonel, however, soon returned—and when his knee brushed hers, she startled.
“Forgive me,” he murmured.
“Not at all,” she replied gently.
Then came another waltz—and before Theresa could pounce, he offered his hand. “May I?”
Her heart leapt. He led with a soldier’s precision, strong and sure. Once, he drew her close, whispered something kind. His hands were firm, his smile disarming.
She forgot the room, forgot Theresa’s glare. “The hussy,” Theresa seethed. “Who does she think she is? That should be me!”
The colonel noticed none of it. For the first time in years, his heart stirred—warm, alive again.
Later, he escorted her home. “A gentleman sees a lady safely back. Unless—you might prefer tea at mine?”
She declined, but not harshly.
“A walk, then?” he suggested. The night was warm, the air sweet with lilac.
“How did he know?” she wondered, and gladly agreed.
They wandered long past curfew. At her door, she surprised herself. “Would you… care to come in?” His eyes brightened—as if he’d hoped for nothing less.
At Evelyn’s, the hosts exchanged a glance as the pair left. “Still got some fire in him after all,” Geoffrey chuckled. “And you ladies thought him half-dead!”
Marjorie and Jonathan lived content from then on, strolling arm in evening light—glad in each other, and vexing none but Theresa.
