Men

1.
It's late November and there's a sharp chill in the air but I’ve decided to walk anyway and I’ve got plenty of time. Besides, I could do with the exercise. People hurry past me, huddled into themselves, keen to escape the cold. I pull my scarf tight around my neck. On the other side of the road I spot a flower shop so I stop in to buy her a bunch of flowers, just something little to show that I care, that I love her, that even after all this time I can still be romantic.
“Fifteen quid for some flowers? I’ll take a single rose instead thanks.” Three quid. That’s more like it. And of course it is worth it. It’ll make her happy, put a smile on her face.
As I step out of the shop I almost walk into a pretty blonde girl.
“Sorry.” I say instinctively though we don’t actually make contact.
“No worries.” She chuckles as she continues on her way.
I walk on a little way, but soon stop and look back. That movement, like she turned. Maybe she looked back and I just missed her? I shouldn’t look again but I do and again, maybe she did, maybe she didn't. Probably not. She was young, too young. Early twenties, which is too young for me. Well she'd think so. Or maybe others would think so. But she had looked. Maybe she wouldn't think so. No, I'm not that old. Still, she was young. Can't remember what it was like being with someone that young. Someone without the cynicism, the resignation, someone still wanting a little bit more from the twenty-four hours a day that they were given.
I can’t remember what that was like.
I'm at the corner now, and a look at my watch. It confirms that I’m still early. She won’t be back yet. I think to waste some time but it’s too cold to sit in the park or just walk for a bit longer. Further along the road I spot an old guy coming out a bar. One of those grotty little places, seemingly open twenty four hours a day. He stops on the street, blows stale warm breath into his cupped hands, before shoving them deep into the pockets of his worn coat and heads off along the road.
It's bigger than it looks from the outside. There is a long bar down the left side, a pool table barely visible in the darkness at the back, and a jukebox with bright flashing lights that look out of place against the drab furnishings. Behind the bar a girl cleans glasses with a grubby looking towel. She looks up and offers a half- hearted smile before going back to the glasses, stacking them onto shelves above the bar. The are two other people in the bar, two old guys playing cards in silence.
"What lagers you got on tap?" She gestures to the taps for me to look myself like one of the lasses on a game show showing the shiny new prizes up for grabs. "Stella, please."
She pours the pint and puts the full glass down in front of me without looking at me once.
“Three twenty.” She holds her hand in front of me and I put a note in it.
She goes back to her glasses. I take a long mouthful, it feels good, but as soon as it's gone down I want something else to do with my hands, and I realise just how quiet it is, how self-conscious I feel. I look across to the jukebox.
"Mind if I put something on?" she shakes her head. No, she doesn't mind. I flick through the racks of Greatest Hits. Greatest Pub Juke box Hits 1, 2, and 3, greatest Irish Hits, Greatest Dance Classics, Greatest Elvis, Greatest Hits of the Seventies, Eighties, Nineties. I find one song that I want to hear. I'm obviously not a Greatest Hits kind of guy. I sit back down at the bar.
"Good choice." The bargirl says.
"Thanks. It's the only song I could find on there that I wanted to hear. I'm obviously not a Greatest Hits kind of guy." She smiles which makes me happy that I said it.
"What else did you put on?" She knows the answer but she's going the polite route to get what she wants.
"Nothing. I left the credits on there. You want to use them?" She smiles again.
"You don’t mind?"
"Course not." I notice her now, now that she's talking to me, now that maybe she's flirting with me and I notice that she’s not bad looking. She's got long dark hair, cut into her face to make her look glamorous but that looks completely out of place in here. Her eyes are dark, almond shaped.
As she steps out from behind the bar I see she is wearing a short skirt. A flicker of desire whispers through me as I run my eyes up her legs.
I take another mouthful of the drink, feel the warmth of it within me and follow her over to the Jukebox, look over her shoulder at the choice. She selects a song.
"Use them all."
"Really?" She turns her head slightly and I am suddenly uncomfortably aware of how close we are.
“Of course.” I say.
She smells of stale cigarette smoke and a sickly sweet perfume. If she were to look at me we'd be too close, like we were going to kiss. I should go back to the bar, but that would seem odd, like now I’ve committed myself to this stupid thing I should see it through so instead I take a small step back, then another. She selects the final song and we wander back over to the bar. I smile at her, take a deep mouthful of the drink, look about awkwardly, hoping she'll start up a conversation but she goes back to her glasses, sings along with the song that comes on. We have nothing to say to one another. I watch her and realise that she’s actually not very attractive. I finish my drink and get up. She smiles.
“That for your wife?” She gestures to the rose.
“Yes.” I say. I leave without a backward glance.
It's cold outside and I hurry on.
2.
She loves the rose. I hold it behind my back when she opens the door and pull it out only after she's kissed me. She seems really happy and I'm glad I bought it. She puts it in a vase that she has to wash before she can use it, and places it on the centre of the dining table.
We make love that night. For the first time in weeks. By the weekend the rose is dead. I should buy another one sometime I think to myself.