ForNever

I walk past the usual places, the pubs, the yoghurt factory, the houses with their quaint gardens while I listen to the music in my ears. The fine, misty precipitation does not wet me, and there are no actual drops of rain. I push my hands deep into the pockets of my shocking pink jacket.

When I get to the mall, I walk into my usual clothes store. I pick new pants, new shirts and a few dresses. I choose new jackets and for good measure, I buy some new underwear. Everything I select is in various shades of black. After all, I am mourning the absence of love.

When I can hardly see over the pile of clothes draped over my forearms, I walk to the pay points. I stand in the short queue and I notice a beautiful black Celtic cross hanging from the impulse-buy display-unit, conveniently located in the narrow stand-in-line passage toward the tills. I move my arms awkwardly and I wrap my pinkie around the chain until I wrangle it from the display-unit, just in time for me to move forward for my turn to pay.

I drop the clothes onto the counter unceremoniously. The elderly teller starts to scan my items and she looks up at me sympathetically. She asks, "Who died, honey?"

She probably thinks my new black wardrobe is for a funeral. Here everybody knows everybody, and usually when someone dies, foreigners will stick out like sore thumbs-like us. We moved here six years ago from England. Foreigners usually do not know that the deceased went to school with the person you are talking to, nor were friends of so and so's uncle's cousin twice removed.

I look down and she assumes I do not want to talk about it.

She says with concern, "It gets easier, honey."

I nod my head as if I understand and then when she gives me the total for my purchase, I slide the credit card across to her.

Walking out of the shop with my bags, I consider that I would have to catch the bus home because these bags would get progressively heavier when I walked back up the hill to my house.

I walk past a hairdressing salon. About five steps further, I stop. The man behind me almost collides with me. I turn around, ignoring his angry complaints, and walk back to the hairdresser. My long brown hair will never suit my new look.

Uncertainly, I walk in and go to the counter. The girl behind the counter looks up at me, and then she smiles friendly.

I ask, "Is it possible to fit me in for a colour and a cut?"