**The Pink Scarf**
Two years ago, Evelyn buried her husband. He had been seventeen years older, and she’d been just twenty-nine when they met.
Men had never paid her much attention. Shy and homebound, she avoided clubs and loud gatherings. In school and university, boys saw her as a mate—someone to copy homework from or borrow lecture notes. They dated the pretty, lively girls, the ones unburdened by morality or conventions.
She’d met Geoffrey on the street. It was a warm May afternoon, the cherry blossoms out, the young greenery dazzling under a generous sun. Evelyn had decided to walk home, basking in the spring air, squinting against the light, smiling at strangers for no reason.
And then there he was—tall, pleasant-looking, wearing a long black coat left open. As he passed her, he grinned and said, *”Lovely weather. Nearly summer. And yet here I am, bundled up.”* His voice was rich and warm.
*”Then take it off,”* Evelyn teased.
He did at once, slinging it over his arm. For some reason, she didn’t walk away. She just stood there, oddly entranced.
*”Much better. Fancy an ice cream?”* Without waiting for an answer, he dashed to the nearest kiosk. Evelyn almost left, but it would’ve been rude.
He returned and handed her a vanilla cone.
*”Oh, my favourite,”* she said. *”How did you know?”*
*”Mine too.”*
They walked together, chatting about everything. She got home late, too full of ice cream for dinner.
*”What’s got you glowing like that?”* Her mother narrowed her eyes.
*”Nothing,”* Evelyn said, flushing.
Geoffrey called the next day, inviting her out.
*”It’s pouring. You realise that, don’t you? I didn’t bring an umbrella,”* she said flatly.
*”No matter. Let’s go to the cinema instead. Where do you work? I’ll pick you up.”*
On the way, he told her his wife had died a year before—a heart condition. Doctors had advised against children.
*”I loved her deeply. It never bothered me, not having them. I cherished her. After she passed, I barely survived. Thought I’d be alone forever. Then I saw you… Val, you remind me of her. Not in looks. Your eyes—clear as a spring. You’re untouched by modern nonsense. That’s rare.”*
The next evening, Geoffrey was in the kitchen, drinking tea with her mother. Roses sat on the table.
*”Darling, Geoffrey and I were just chatting,”* her mother said, eyes flashing: *Don’t be a fool.*
He was handsome, well-dressed, silver-haired charm. Her mother approved—his flat, his car, his salary. No children? Even better. No stepchild nonsense. And Evelyn could still have her own.
*”Mum, I’ve known him a week, and you’re already planning weddings,”* Evelyn protested. *”He’s nice, but I don’t love him.”*
*”No love, no heartbreak. Practical marriages last. He’ll keep you safe. You’re not a schoolgirl dreaming of romance.”*
As he left, Geoffrey asked her to walk him to his car.
*”Tomorrow, I’d like you and your mother to see my place. Evelyn, be clear—if you want children, I’ll understand. But I’m too old for fatherhood. Sleepless nights and nappies? No.”*
Honest, at least. She never raised the subject again.
Life with him was steady. Colleagues envied her—no wild young husband, just reliable pickups and drop-offs. Her mother called it a winning ticket. Grandchildren would’ve been nice, but happiness is never perfect.
For three years, she never regretted marrying him. Respect, trust, security—those mattered in a marriage.
Then one evening, he came home, ate, lay down to rest. Evelyn kept quiet, not to disturb him. By the time she realised something was wrong, he was gone.
She mourned him sincerely.
Afterward, she drifted through routines. Her mother’s hints—*time for change*—irritated and frightened her. A child alone? From whom, for heaven’s sake?
Geoffrey hadn’t liked her wearing bright colours or makeup. *”Why? You’re married. Only women hunting for attention do that.”* She’d packed away her old clothes, opting for dull, ageing styles, hair scraped back.
Then, one April morning, unseasonably warm, trees in bloom, birds singing, she found it—the pink scarf from her past. How had it ended up among her dreary things? She tied it on.
The bus was packed at rush hour. Fighting her way to the exit, she felt the scarf catch, tighten around her neck. People shoved; she yanked at it, only making it worse. Someone’s bag had snagged it. A young man tugged impatiently.
*”Careful, you’ll rip it,”* she snapped.
The doors closed. She’d missed her stop.
*”Now I’ve gone too far, thanks to you.”*
*”Me? Dress like that, take a taxi.”* He jerked the scarf. *”What, precious gift from hubby?”*
They bickered all the way to the next stop. Outside, he freed the scarf with ease.
*”Thanks,”* she muttered. *”Now I’ve a walk ahead of me.”*
*”I’ll come with you.”*
*”Don’t bother. Your mum’s probably waiting.”* She turned away.
*”Haven’t got one,”* he said behind her. *”Died when I was fifteen. Dad remarried. I rent a flat now.”*
*”Sorry. My husband’s gone too. Not that he gave me this. Bought it myself at uni.”* Why had she admitted that?
*”Funny it got stuck on my bag,”* he grinned. *”Fate. Dozens of people, and it hooks onto me.”*
She stopped dead. *”Don’t be ridiculous. Coincidence, not fate.”*
*”Pity you think so. I’m Jamie. Friends call me Jai. You?”*
She didn’t answer, veering into her building. At the door, she glanced back—he was still there, waving.
Later, she scolded herself. He’d been decent, and she’d acted like a child. Next day, she searched for him at the stop, wanting to apologise.
A week later, rain lashed down. Evelyn picked her way home, dodging puddles. Jai blocked her path at the door.
*”Stalking me?”* She shook out her umbrella.
*”Just wanted to see you.”*
She checked if he was joking. He wasn’t.
*”You’re my fate, after all. Fancy tea? I’m soaked waiting.”* He sneezed for effect, lips quirking, suddenly boyish.
She was cold too. Over tea, he told her he was finishing his medical residency. Had wanted the army, like his brother. But after his mum died, he chose medicine. She listened, thinking female colleagues and patients would adore him—and felt a stab of jealousy.
He came the next night, after dark. She opened the door straight into his arms.
*”I couldn’t wait… needed to see you…”* His breath scorched her neck.
She pushed at his chest, but her legs betrayed her, heart hammering. She clung so as not to fall.
With Geoffrey, it had never been like this. Lights off, nightgown on, enduring touch. Then he’d turn over, asleep.
She hadn’t known it could be different. Now, under Jai’s kisses, she melted like chocolate.
*”Say the word, and I’ll stop,”* he rasped.
She didn’t.
Later, sleepless, she replayed it all. Morning came light. Watching him eat breakfast, she barely recognised herself. In love? Maybe. But not reckless. Just letting herself feel alive.
She waited for him every evening, counting heartbeats till he arrived. Bought jeans, trainers, mascara, let her hair down. The mirror showed a stranger. Everyone noticed. No one doubted why.
She felt like a girl again, running to the door at his knock, falling into his arms.
Logically, she knew it would end. They were from different worlds, thrown together by chance.
One day, Jai arrived sombre.
*”What’s wrong?”*
*”Residency’s over.”*
*”That’s good!”*
*”Got an offer. Best hospital—London.”*
*”Let’s celebrate.”* She fetched half a bottle of wine. *”Amazing start.”*
*”Yes, but… London. What about you?”*
*”What about me?”* She smiled.
*”I’ll settle, then bring you over.”*
SheShe never heard from him again, but when her daughter was born, she named her Jamie, and the pink scarf stayed tucked in the drawer—a relic of two lives, both lost, both loved.
