Under the bonnet

I had been living a sub-life for a while though, since I’d been forced to leave my husband, and I hated every minute of it. I couldn’t afford to show weakness because I had three children to raise; I wasn’t going to give up the fight. I always promised myself that I’d rather be as poor as a beggar than abandon my children as I had been.

Luckily, along the way, I’d found a few kindred spirits who were now among my best friends. So I shook off my insecurities and confidently climbed out of my ’84 claptrap.

Then I walked into the yard and saw him. At first glance, hunched over a motor with my friend, he looked like another back under a bonnet.

“Hellooooo,” I sang in my usual manner, raising a smile from Francis and a curious look from his friend.

“Hey,” said Francis, and his friend watched while we chatted about the latest mechanical works in progress.

“Hi,” I said coolly to the newcomer, to which he replied in kind, before an awkward pause stretched between us.

The first thing that struck me was his eyes: they stared at me, mirroring my own bright blue orbs. I wasn’t sure. Could it be him? Really? I reeled with the hope that it might be, but felt the need to armour myself against pain or disappointment.

How could I tell? I’d only seen him three times in my adulthood, each time in dimly lit CBD nightspots. My sister Donna had introduced us the first time; we’d both attended a work function and the moment had seemed surreal.

Donna had yanked me by the arm and I vividly remember my sense of the preordained falling into place as she uttered both our names. Now, once again, my gut was telling me I didn’t need any proof or justification. I had found him by chance, as he had found me.