Never Again
Hazel stopped by the shop after work. She didn’t feel like cooking, but Emily needed feeding. She grabbed a pack of pasta and sausages—her daughter had loved them since childhood. A carton of milk and a loaf of bread went into the basket too.
A short queue had formed at the checkout. In front of Hazel stood a burly man in a black jacket and a knitted beanie with a pom-pom. “Young bloke wearing something like that. Probably knitted by his doting wife. Some women just ruin their men—make sure no one else fancies them. Wonder what his face looks like—probably babyish,” she mused, glaring at the ridiculous striped hat.
The man turned, sensing her stare. She looked away quickly. “Not bad, actually. Doesn’t seem daft.” He glanced back at her again.
“Going to burn a hole through me with that look?” he quipped.
“Not much to look at, is there? Got nothing better to do,” Hazel muttered irritably.
The queue didn’t budge. Irritation prickled under her skin. That damned hat… She considered abandoning her groceries and leaving, but there weren’t any other shops nearby. “Men in queues always take forever. Bet he’ll faff about picking cigarettes—‘No, not those, the blue ones—no, the whites with the green sticker.’ Then he’ll rummage for loose change instead of having it ready,” she groaned inwardly.
Sure enough, the man shrugged off his jacket and dug through his tight jeans for coins. Hazel exhaled loudly, rolling her eyes.
“In a rush? Go ahead,” Beanie Man said, stepping aside.
She shrugged and took his place at the checkout. Finally, he scraped together the right amount, bagged his meager shopping, and moved off.
Hazel’s turn came. The cashier scanned her items while she clawed through her purse for her card.
“Can’t you hurry up? Money should be ready,” someone behind snapped.
“Lost your card?” Beanie Man taunted.
She ignored him, still searching.
“I’ll pay,” he told the cashier.
“No! I’ve got it,” Hazel blurted, flushed. Her fingers finally closed around the card. She tapped it against the reader with too much relief.
Bag in hand, she hurried out. “What’s wrong with me? So what if his hat’s hideous? If he likes it, let him wear it. I’m just bitter, aren’t I?” she scolded herself all the way home.
“All his fault. We were happy. Or was it just me? Ran off with some silly young thing who got pregnant. Did the ‘decent’ thing and married her. Never mind his daughter growing up without a dad. And I’m nearly forty. Forty! God, that’s old…”
He’d left her the flat—bought his way out. Small mercies. Why do we women suffer for them? Same story everywhere. The rare ones stay faithful, or cheat cleverly without leaving. At forty, they chase girls half their age. What’s left for us?” The monologue raged in her head, tears pricking her eyes.
The lift shuddered to a halt, doors screeching open. A disheveled drunk stumbled out. Hazel stepped in, wrinkling her nose at the stench of booze and cheap cigarettes. “All the same—boozing or tomcatting. Can’t stand them.”
Her floor. The lift jerked. The flat door key tangled in her gloves, threatening to drop. She fought free, shoved the gloves away, finally unlocked it—
Emily sat at her desk, homework spread out. She glanced up, eyes flashing something unreadable—contempt? Annoyance?
“Mum, I need money for the theatre trip. Saturday,” she demanded.
“Dinner first,” Hazel deflected, heading to the kitchen.
“More money. Like I print the stuff. One income now—rent, food… counting pennies.” She filled a pot, silently ranting at life’s unfairness.
“Mum, the theatre?” Emily hovered, finger wedged in her book.
“I’ll withdraw cash tomorrow,” Hazel sighed, not turning.
Satisfied, Emily vanished.
“See how long it lasts. Youth and beauty fade. She’ll pop out a kid, lose her figure, sleepless nights… And he’s no spring chicken—over forty. Serves him right. Should be thinking grandkids, not newborns. God, why do I keep dwelling on him?”
After dinner, Hazel switched on her desk lamp. It buzzed, clicked—died. “Perfect. Just bought it! What a day.” She fiddled with the bulb. Useless. “Exchange it tomorrow. If I find the receipt.” She hadn’t. Probably binned it with the box.
Next evening, lugging the heavy lamp, she headed to the electronics shop across the road.
On the steps, Beanie Man smoked. She shot him a glare and marched in.
He followed—behind the counter now. Catching her shock, he smirked.
“Bought this last week,” she snapped, slamming the lamp down.
“Got the receipt?” he asked smoothly. “No surprise you’re single. With that temper.”
“What makes you think I’m single?” she spluttered.
“Got a husband, he’d fix this himself. Or bring it back.”
“He’s busy. Writing his thesis,” Hazel lied. “No receipt, no exchange? Useless to me.” She turned to leave.
“Address? I’ll repair it. Drop it off. Or collect tomorrow,” he called.
“Why bother lugging it? Flat 96, opposite.” She shoved the door.
“So that’s where I’d seen him. No beanie then. Clever eyes. Decent.” She walked home, pleased—free repairs.
The mirror showed a woman swallowed by a hat, dull-eyed, lips pinched. Drab. “No one at work said a word. Solidarity, eh?”
“My fault he strayed. She’s glamorous—long nails, heels… Men love that. Me? Stuck in trousers. Enough. Time to change. Spite him. Let him think I’ve moved on too.”
Next morning, Hazel wore a dress, mascara. Emily stared.
“About time. Now your hair.”
Hazel spun.
“Eyes sparkling. Met someone?” Emily grinned.
“For me.” Hazel fluffed her hair. “Maybe a cut?”
At work, compliments poured in. Mood lifted.
Home—jeans and a tee, not her usual robe. She peeled potatoes. Ex hated onions, garlic—afraid of bad breath. His angel probably lived on air.
The sizzle of frying onions filled the flat. Emily dashed in.
“Special occasion?”
“Just because. Start the wash, will you? Don’t forget the detergent.” Hazel fetched pickles.
As the potatoes simmered—the doorbell.
The shopkeeper stood there—beanie-less. Hazel barely recognised him. The lamp in his hands gave it away.
“You?”
“Lamp’s fixed.” He handed it over. She noticed his throat work, eyes darting past her—towards the kitchen.
“Come in. I’ll feed you. Least I can do.”
He didn’t refuse. Inside, he shrugged off his coat.
“Where’s the loo?”
“Bathroom.” She flicked the light—and recoiled.
Soapy water covered the floor.
“Step back.” He rolled up trousers, padded in barefoot, shut off the taps. “Bucket. Rag.”
She obeyed. Tore an old robe into rags. They sopped up the mess.
“Neighbours not banging—leak’s new. Hose probably split. I’ll call my mate—fixes washers…”
As he phoned, Hazel studied him. Lucky timing.
“Mate’ll come tomorrow,” he said, pocketing his phone.
“Thanks.” She smiled.
“You’re different now. Lovely smile. I’m Oliver. Old-fashioned name.” He dried his hands, gaze steady.
“Hazel.” She hung the towel up.
“Been ages since I had spuds with pickles,” he said between mouthfuls.
“Wife only feeds you steak?” Emily eyed him.
“No wife. Married young—divorced in six months. ‘Irreconcilable differences.’”
“Who knitted the hat, then?” Hazel blurted.
“Oh. Mum. Keepsake. She died last spring.”
“Sorry.” Hazel exchanged a look with Emily.
Later, dishes done, Hazel sat opposite him, brushing imaginary crumbs.
“Her dad left?”
“Yes. Got a younger woman pregnant. Their kid’s due soon,” she admitted.
“You’re young yourself,” Oliver said, rising. “Best be off. Mate’ll come tomorrow.”
She saw him out, washed up, stared blankly at the telly. Ex wouldn’t have fixed the leak. Would’ve told her to call a plumber. Never mopped.
“Men try at first. Help, bring flowers. Then what? Sofa, telly, affairs. He’ll be the same. No more men.As summer faded into autumn, Hazel found herself smiling more often, her heart lighter, and the flat—once filled with echoes of loneliness—now humming with warmth and the quiet promise of new beginnings.
