Story - The Brooch Approach

 

"Lovely brooch" he said.  "Buy it yourself or is it from someone special?"

"No, it's a gift from a friend in return for a favour.  Big surprise at the time, but now it means a lot to me."  He looked more closely, although whether to examine the heart shape on my lapel, or simply to get closer to me, I wasn't sure.  I hoped he wasn't much interested in my jewellery.

The brooch was silver, shaped into the outline of a heart, studded with eighteen rose diamonds that gave it a sparkling pink lustre that caught the eye in the right light.   

"Must have been some favour."

"Well if you fancy buying me a drink I'll tell you all about it."  He did.  It didn't take much to agree we'd go into Brodies, given it was next door to the far less cosy shop we'd met in.  Corner table occupied, drinks in front of us, names and chit chat exchanged, and I kept my part of the bargain. 

"We were down in London a couple of years ago, at a big conference and fair thing for recruitment agencies like ours."

"We?" 

"My husband and me."  He sat back.  "My now ex-husband, for reasons which will soon become obvious if you let me tell the story."  He leaned in, interested.  "We worked together, had started the company together, we'd been married for five years.  But this week down south he was suddenly having to go to extra curricular meetings to which I wasn't invited, didn't need to go, I'd just be bored, and so on.  I wasn't convinced, but I couldn't say for sure it wasn't happening either."  

I paused, remembering the pain of the first couple of days.

"On the Wednesday day night, with Ron having done his disappearing act since mid afternoon, I went out with Angie, an old friend who's in the same business.  We're having a drink and chatting away and a guy suddenly joins us, slips in beside Ange.  I looked at her, she looked sheepish.

"Sorry, she says, "I should have mentioned Ben would be joining us.  You don't mind, do you?"  It didn't look like I had a lot of choice, unless I fancied the evening to myself.  Ben was about forty five, a good ten years older than Ange and me.  Short, chubby, balding, big red nose.  His suit looked old and cheap.  It was hard to see what linked the two of them.

"Except it soon wasn't, as they clearly couldn't keep their hands off each other, and Angie, my bright, hard nosed friend, was like a labrador pup.  Gooseberry time for me."

We left the pub, and Ben took us to the restaurant he'd booked.  Nice place, not cheap, looked a bit pricey for Ben.  It probably was.  "My treat." said Angie."  

"To be fair to Ben he was easy to talk to, could be really funny, and clearly adored my pal.  Between courses I learned more about how and when they'd met, how the relationship had developed - and the bit that made me realise why I'd been brought along.  As cover.  Ben was, of course, married.  To a woman he claimed to detest - don't they all? - and wanted to leave.  But the look on his face every time her name came up showed me just how under her thumb he really was.  

"We were at the coffee and liqueurs stage when Ben pulls this brooch out of his pocket, pins it to his lapel.  Angie tells him off, but is clearly delighted to see it.  Turns out this is something she gave him as a keepsake, and he's messing about by wearing it in public, just for the laughs.  But he suddenly stopped laughing.

"A tall tweedy-looking woman stood at the table, face red with fury.  She bellows "Benjamin, what's that?", pointing at his sparkling decoration.  Ben looks flustered, Angie's colour has drained and I don't need any introductions to know who this is.  "That's mine" I said, "Angie gave it to me as a present and Ben was giving us a laugh saying it looked better on him.  What d'you think?"

"She looked at me, looked at Ben, looked at Angie, looked unsure what came next.  "Come on Ben, give it back, I don't think your good lady thinks it suits you."  He handed it over and I pinned it on.  "The things we do when we get a bit pissed with colleagues, eh." I said, winking at her.  She ignored me now, and asked Ben if he was coming to the hotel.  And he went, just like that, leaving Angie to stare after him, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly.  

"Ange was angry, hurt, vengeful, and she described various things she wanted to do to Ben and his disturbing spouse.  Figured that he must have been stupid enough to put the restaurant booking in his calendar and the harpie had charged up from Kent to catch him out.  Reckoned she wouldn't see him again.  Before we left I gave her back the brooch.  Well, tried to.  She wouldn't have it.  Said it would only remind her of tonight, and I deserved it for my quick thinking.  I soon realised she wouldn't accept my refusals so I got this little beauty out of it.

"I also got my divorce.  As we left the restaurant who should appear out of the place across the road?  My soon-to-be-ex and his bit of extra curricular activity, draped over each other.  This sobered me up and I managed to quieten Ange and drag her along so we could follow them.  To watch a big gropy smooch at the taxi rank.  Was I going to be like Mrs Ben and barge in to embarrass them?  Too bloody right I was.  

"And the rest, as they say, is history."

My companion sat smiling.  "Good story, nice punchline.  Think those gems have changed your luck?"

"You mean you only noticed me because of my diamonds?"

He laughed, and I loved that sound.  "That would be like noticing the Mona Lisa because it's got a nice frame."

I unpinned the brooch, stuck it on his lapel.  He looked at me quizzically, amused at the gesture.

"Let's see if anyone turns up" I said.

Story - Mr Banks

 

Simon had expected the next instruction from Control would be telling him to taxi to the runway, but he was disappointed.

"Lima Tango 325, please hold position until further notice, incoming emergency means all take offs delayed indefinitely.  Will update you on estimated time when things become clearer."

"Roger Control."  There wasn't much else he could say.  Whatever the emergency might be, they'd be too busy dealing with it for unnecessary questions from him, and he'd probably see it soon enough.  Sounded like a flight with a problem needed a runway urgently.  He informed the passengers about the situation, answered their unanswerable questions as best he could, and settled to wait.

Which gave him another chance to ponder on what he was about to do, and how he'd come to this point.  This was it, his first solo flight in charge of a commercial passenger aircraft.  There were only six other people on board, the flight time was just forty minutes, and he'd be back in Inverness in plenty time for dinner.  But it was all his.  After a couple of years of co-piloting he'd now be solely responsible for the safety and comfort, and confidence, of everyone on board, trusted by the airline to do the job to the standards they demanded.  It was a place he thought he'd never be in, a chance that so nearly fell away from him, but for one man.

Fourteen year old Simon had only one ambition in life. He would become an airline pilot, surely the natural outcome of the absorbing fascination with aviation he'd had for eight years.   It was time to choose the subjects he'd take next year, the ones he'd go on to take O-grades in, from which he'd select the Highers he'd sit, which would shape the degree course he'd be able to take, which would be his passport to flying school.  Maths and Physics were top of his list, the essentials for his future.

At the parents evening McCartney, the Maths teacher, had made encouraging noises, confident in Simon's abilities to progress.  English, French, Chemistry, the same, no problems foreseen if he kept up to the same standards he'd met so far.  Their final stop was with Harrison, the Physics man, and the one teacher Simon found hard to get on with.  He knew he hadn't excelled in Harrison's class, but felt it was down to the teaching as much as his own ability.  Harrison thought otherwise, and explained to his disappointed parents that Simon stood little chance of passing the lower level exam two hears hence, never mind the far more important one the year after.  His father put up a half hearted defence, emphasising how important this was to the boy's career aspirations, but he was no match, in intellect or authority, for the teacher.  Telling Simon to leave it, they'd work something else out, they shepherded him towards the way out.

The evening was coming to a close and Banks, Simon's French teacher and form master, was shuffling his papers into order, stuffing them into his bag.  He looked up to see a  boy who'd been smiling eagerly thirtty minutes before, but now looked like one heading for the scaffold, morosely shuffling along between his stoic parents.  

"Simon."  

He looked across blankly, a weight around his neck.

"Can we have a chat before you go home?"

Simon looked at his parents.  They, used to giving way on educational matters, urged obedience, and moved with him towards the trestle table.

"Just Simon on his own if you don't mind please, if you could wait outside we'll only be a few minutes."  

Simon wondered what was coming, but didn't much care.

"So who's given you some bad news?"  

"Mr Harrison doesn't think I can get my Physics O so I shouldn't take it next year."

Banks understood the implications immediately.  He shared some of Simon's interest in the world of aircraft, so he knew exactly what an obstacle had been dropped into the boy's life plans.

"And what do you think?"

Simon stood open mouthed.  This wasn't a question he was prepared for, for his opinion was so rarely sought by anyone.

"Come on, you can tell me.  I know how much of a blow that would be to you and everything you want to be.  So what do you think - could you get your Physics or not?"

"Mr Harrison says no."

"I'm not asking Mr Harrison, I'm asking you.  Do YOU think you'd get it?  How much do you want it?"

Simon struggled between the his maternally-inculcated humility and an adolescent desire to realise his dreams.  He looked at Banks, a concerned, encouraging expression on his face, and decided to take a chance and see where it took him.  He couldn't be any worse off than he was already.

"I'm sure I can sir, but I seem to have problems with the way Mr Harrison explains things."

"Have you been to any of Mrs Baker's classes, or Mr Cheam's?"

"We had some lessons from Mrs Baker, and I found her a lot easier to understand.  Not that I mean Mr Harrison doesn't know stuff or anything, but..."  Banks stopped him.  

"Leave it with me Simon, let's see what can be done.  No promises, but I'll see if we can get a second opinion, OK?"

Simon nodded, not able to trust the lifeline being thrown his way, and went off outside.

"What was that about?" his mother asked.

"He wants me to do some extra reading." he lied.

Simon never really did understand what Banks had done.  But two days later he was summoned to see Baker, questioned intently for an hour and, feeling like he'd been under interrogation, left none the wiser.  Two days later a letter arrived at home, telling his parents that there had been a revised verdict on Simon's Physics capabilities, and if it was still one of his preferred subjects he'd be in Mrs Baker's class next year.  And that was that.

"Lima Tango 325, please taxi to standpoint A and prepare for takeoff."

Simon's instincts threw him from his reverie.  "Roger Control."  He went through his procedures and set the plane in motion, to a desultory cheer from the impatient sextet behind him.  As the lift took hold off the wings and hauled them skywards Simon's inner voice said "Thank you Mr Banks."

Story - Puppy Love

 

I'd had that job for six years.  I was good at it.  I was very good at it.  Everyone said so.  The boss, my colleagues, the customers.  They couldn't do without me, could they?

So it seemed.  Then the pandemic hit, the lockdown froze us out of business, the company shut down for who knows how long?  There were redundancies, but not for me.  I was put on the furlough scheme and, to begin with, the boss man topped my salary up to full pay.  But when it became clear, after the first three months, that even without a full lockdown any more we still wouldn't be able to get back to work, that luxury came to an end.  

No real worry, I still got more than enough to pay the mortgage, pay the household bills, feed myself and... well, there wasn't much to spend the rest on anyway.  Going out?  Don't make me laugh.

But the months dragged on, the end of the year loomed, and another big wrecking ball headed our way.  Brexshit.  The boss kept us informed of what we needed in  the deal, if there was ever going to be one,  to keep us viable.  But when it came it was clear that the dog's breakfast of an end product was a killer blow.  The extra red tape would soon have wrapped us in a slow death by strangulation.  This was the end.

Redundant.  No matter how much the word was sugar coated, no matter that I was released ever so reluctantly and with such huge regret, I was still out of work for the first time in my life. During the biggest recession, with rocketing unemployment, in a country that was going backwards, under a government that blended heartlessness, greed and incompetence into a mediocre cocktail of despondency.  I'd never claimed benefits before, but I knew the scare stories about universal credit and how badly it had been implemented.  With few savings behind me my mortgage was going to become an immediate problem.  I saw myself turned into one of those people who have to make decisions about whether to feed himself or keep warm.  In a world without hugs.

Morose about my uncertain future, aware of how easily I could let myself roll about in a mud pit of self pity, I ventured out into the daylight.  Trying to avoid the idiots walking along with their heads looking screenwards.  Or the couples who were too oblivious of others to walk single file for the five seconds it would have taken.  I turned into the local park, where at least the pathways were wide and there was space to get away from people.  

I didn't see her at first, hidden behind the approaching pair of legs.  I sought eye contact with the woman approaching, seeking to determine which side we'd each be safest on, but she turned away, looking back.  And then I saw her, a scurrying leg-whirl of white.  I moved to my left, the lady to hers, and her companion stopped in the middle, and looked at me.  Little brown ears, soft eyes, frantically excited tail, and so, so tiny.  

"How old?" I asked.

"Nine weeks, too wee for a lead yet.  But she's curious about everything and everyone."

I crouched down to get a closer look, and little Ms Nosey came right on up to my outstretched hand.  Trusting, fascinated, expecting to be loved.  She was gorgeous, cute, infectious in her 'the-world-is-wonderful-cos-I'm-in-it' confidence.  I wanted to pick her up and take her away in my pocket, and never let her go.

"She's lovely."  

"I know."  The dog walker grinned her delight at this addition to her life.  

"Maybe I'll see you both again." I said, rising, thinking it was the puppy I really meant.  But when she said "I hope so.  I'll be round again this time tomorrow.  Best be going now, too cold to stand around."  And she walked off up the path.  The pup, uncertain who offered most, stopped to look up at me, looked up the path, and bounced off after the one who would feed her.  Her owner looked back to check.  On me and the dog.

I completed my walk with a smile on my face, and a lighter step than before.  Was that all it took to make my world seem a brighter place?  Yes.  The cutest bundle of joy turning up, an attractive woman who didn't see the darkness I'd been wrapped in, and a future that, however uncertain, would always throw up a life that needed to be lived.  There's always a way.

Story - All Tied Up

  

Still breathless from the excitements of the previous ninety minutes, she closed the door behind the departed Malcolm and thought through Operation Clean-up.  Mentally flicked through which rooms he'd been in, what he'd touched and handled (mostly her...), which traces of his tumultuous presence might need to be removed.  He'd come into the hall, straight through to the kitchen where he had wine, swiftly up to the spare room where he had her, and briefly into the bathroom for his own tidy up.  She decided to work back from where he'd last been.

In the bathroom there was nothing she could see.  He'd put the toilet lid down (good boy!), but she quickly checked for splashes on the seat itself, and that he'd flushed.  No mess around the sink or on the mirror, nothing looked to have been moved.  One more check in the mirror.  Was she herself passable?  She nipped through to the en suite, brushed her hair, tidied her makeup, enough but not too much, and decided her clothes were just as they should be.

She moved on to the room where they'd had sex.  And stood dreamily in the doorway for several minutes, reliving the passion and gymnastics that had taken place.  No, she must get on.  The sheets were stained (of course...), but once covered up and the bed made there was nothing to see.  She hoovered the pillows for hairs as a precaution, but there really didn't seem to be anything that would be easy to spot.  Henry never came in here anyway.  May and Doug were coming to stay in a couple of weeks and she'd use that as an excuse to refresh the bedding before their arrival.   All was well in the bedroom.

Back down to the kitchen and the most obvious giveaways that she'd had 'company'.  Two wine glasses, and a half finished bottle of reisling.  And a decision to make.  Did she wash both glasses, dispose of the bottle (or hide it? - no, she didn't want her husband thinking his wife was an alcoholic) and hope Henry didn't notice a bottle had gone missing?  Risky.  Or wash just one, and offer Henry a glass as soon as he got in?  She'd rarely got to the point of drinking in the afternoon in the past, so why would she have done so today?  This was a question she'd pondered before, and still wasn't sure which option to go with.  It would be hard to convince Henry that she'd had a legitimate visitor she'd plied with alcohol, so there had to be a reason for her to open the bottle herself.  She'd already dropped any idea which might be undone through someone else failing to back up her story, so it had to be about her.  Or Henry.  Or because she was cooking something special that merited wine? - except that she had omelettes planned for dinner.  In the end the best story was the one that was impossible to prove wrong.  She'd simply felt like it.  And why not?

One glass washed and dried and put away, another, for Henry, brought out and ready to use beside her own dirty glass.  She worried it might give him 'ideas', but that was such an infrequent event nowadays, or why else would she have turned to Malcolm?   Another look round the kitchen, but there was nothing to worry about.  Mission accomplished.

Henry came in a usual and called out her name.  She came into the hall as usual and came up to give him a hug.  But before she did they both saw it at the same time.  Bright blue, snaked across the top of the console table.  She stopped, he spoke.

"Hello, where's this from?"  He picked up the tie and looked quizzically at her.  She hoped she looked composed, she hoped she looked innocent, she hoped and hoped and her brain raced to provide an explanation.

"I found it beside the gate when I got back in.  Do you think I should have left it hung up there in case the owner passed by again?  I thought it was a strange thing to lose."  And stopped herself grinning at the memory of pulling it off her lover the moment he came through the door.

"Must have fallen out a pocket or something.  I doubt he'd know where to look.  Nice tie, I might just keep that for myself."  He gave her a smile of acquisition. 

"OK.  Come and have a glass of wine.  I've already started." she said slyly.  And thought 'I've gotten clean away with it'.

Story - Big Broiler

Culture clash.  You can hear it on a bus, in the supermarket, in the street.  Sometimes it will have real world aftereffects, set people heading off on the wrong pathways. But it can also be very funny, mostly, for anyone listening in.  Or they may come away totally confused, having only heard a snippet of the conversation, the words strung along the soundwaves shorn of all the context in which their meaning lies.

""It's the supermarkets, see?  They go for big breasts.  Like fellers. - Did you see that woman on Big Brother?" An English accent.

"Who is big brother?" A Polish accent.

And so it begins.  

"Don't you know Big Brother?  What do they have on telly where you come from?  It's where they lock 'em all up together in a house and you can watch 'em."

"Chickens?"

You know where this is going...

English accent man doesn't twig."Yeah, yeah, just like chickens.  I like that.  And there's this voice telling 'em like what they've got to do.  And they're not supposed to have sex, but one of 'em did - that one with the big, like, knockers I was telling you about."

"Big like knocker?"

Yeah, massive."

And then they're gone.  You wonder how long it will be for one of them to realise that if they're both talking about birds they're not from the same species?  Or did Mr Polish accent leave thinking there was a TV programme where you could watch chickens being ordered about and forbidden to have sex?  Then where would the eggs come from?  Big Brother never thought of that.

Story - Dragon and the George

 

I still miss the good old days, when I was truly useful.  When they needed me.  But it seems I'm useful once more, perhaps not as much as was once the case, but it's good to feel those centuries of isolation coming to an end.

Once upon a time they couldn't have managed without me.  I'd watched so many creatures change over time, hoping one or another would develop the brainpower that would appreciate the possibilities of what I had to offer.  It was never clear it would come from the monkeys, until they shed much of their hair, learned to walk on two legs, and developed the ability to grip and wield.  They were my chosen ones.

Fire was something they feared, one more uncontrollable element in a terrifying world, a wall of heat and destruction that swept across woodland and grassland and left a black smoking wilderness, and the black smoking bodies of those who could not escape.  I thought about how I could introduce them to the magic, without the fear, and awaited my opportunities.

A wandering group of these early humans, hungry, cold, night falling.  In a dip in the ground I swept some wood together, breathed upon it gently, and created a warming fire.  In the clearing I scattered more wood, and left a small antelope nearby.  Gentle hints.  The band approached, warily, scouting out threats, assessing the situation, and found the warmth and light made them feel better, kept away predators.  They let the fire die down.

It would a take a few goes on my part before someonefinally thought to try putting more wood on the pile, to keep the flames going longer.  That made them more adventurous and some tried building their own piles of wood, but they never lit.  Some tried warming the meat of the antelope (or whatever I'd found convenient nearby), and recognised the improvement in taste.  Unable to recreate the fire elsewhere, they settled in the spot they'd found, kept it going and this became home.  Some understood they could take burning wood in their hands and use them to take light elsewhere, and then to set another fire going.  But if it rained...

I still hadn't shown myself, but observed from high in the sky, far enough that they would mistake me for a great bird.  Revealing myself for what I am would require much thought if they were not to be terrified.  Eventually I chose a grouping that had settled by the sea, when their fires had all been put out by the weather.  I landed as softly as my beating wings allowed.  There was fear in their eyes, but I kept some distance, dropped the wood I had carried with me into a neat pile, and, checking their wary eyes were still on me, gently breathed my magic upon it.  I stepped well back.  They stepped forward, cautious, fearful of a trap.  One stuck his stick into the flames, drew it out ablaze, and rushed back to start relighting their own dark pyres.

This had happened several times, and I had gained their reluctant trust, but they remained cautious.   Who would not be, seeing my size and majesty and powers?  A dragon is not a sight humans ever become fully accustomed to.  But the time was right for the next stage in their combustion education.  When the fires were out once more (although they had steadily developed ways of  preventing this from happening too often) I returned.  Instead of setting a fire I dropped rock on rock to create sparks.  They looked bewildered.  I did it again.  And again.  One of the sparks dropped into some sticks and grass which was briefly alight.  And the spark lit up in one head.  A man rushed to get some rocks and banged them together next to a pile of wood.  No luck.  Another added grass.  And they created their own fire.  I flew up, hovered above, and could see that they knew now.  I was their friend, not their master.  

More groups received the same lessons.  The news spread, of how to create and master fire, of the uses it could be put to, and that the dragon, if you ever saw it, was a friend of man.  I did not want worship, just the knowledge that I had helped.  

All was well between us, my legend strong, my reputation untarnished.  Until the incident.  One man who changed it all, and changed it for the worse.  His story spread, the dragon became an evil one in the minds of humans, and my usefulness ended.  I hid myself away in these mountains, kept my distance.  But let me tell you what really happened.

I discovered a young woman in trouble.  Lost, far from home, at the mercy of the wild beasts in the hillside forest, hungry and tired and very, very frightened.  When she saw me she knew who I was and that I would be her friend, although she lacked the power of speech.  She let me pick her up, and, holding her warmly in my softened jaws, fly her back towards the nearest humans.  I spotted one on a horse, and thought he might be the one to help, and carry her back to safety.  A strange creature though, in metal clothing that made him look like a poorly constructed shiny scarecrow, with a bright red cross on the board he had strapped to one arm.  

I put her down before him, and stepped away.  The distressed woman looked at me gratefully, and at him expectantly.  He looked on grimly, angrily, with reason deserting his face.  Which he hid as his metal covering snapped shut, pressed his horse to charge forward, and came at me with his puny stick.  I could have, perhaps should have, roasted him then.  But I bore no ill will towards the horse, not did I want to frighten she I had so recently rescued.  So I ascended, and hovered above the scene, immune to his idiocy.  He shouted insults, called me coward and claimed what he called victory.  I stopped myself from laughing.  Chuckling too often results in unexpected busts of flamey breath, and I didn't want the situation to get worse.

He turned back to the woman, now on her feet.  Instead of alighting to check on her condition, he didn't even stop, just bent down to grab her clumsily and heave her painfully across his saddle.  Administering a couple of smacks to her buttocks, he spurred his charger on and went off into the woods.  I thought to follow, to check on her safety, but, shamefully I admit, my vanity had been rattled, my pride roused, and I flew off in the other direction.  The arrogant, ungrateful boor was best left alone, I thought.  Wrongly.

My next appearances before humans were greeted with fear and loathing and aggression.  I even had to singe a couple for my own safety.  What had changed?  It was my friend the unicorn who told me enough to piece together the story.  The tin man had returned to his people with a fantastical tale about his rescue of the poor maiden from the evil dragon, her bruises and the clear evidence of despoilment being shown as evidence against me.  He was a persuasive orator, a man who could spin lies and deceit into a credible farago, and the word of my supposed wrongdoing spread rapidly.  This despicable creature built up such myths about himself that he became the hero of a people, their knight in shining armour.  What sort of folk would choose a bullying and uncaring falsifier as their icon?

But that was then.  The bully is still seen as a hero by many of the descendents of those imperious fools, and they have brought much havoc to the world of humans.  But their neighbours see through them, and accord myself, and my one horned friend, our due credit.  Now, in these hills and valleys, I still light upon people who are lost and tired and hungry and fearful, and I light them a fire and guide them to shelter.  They are grateful, but will not tell the story when they return to their families, for fear of ridicule.  I prefer it that way.  I am a myth, a legend, and a friend of man.  But not of the tin men.

Story - Missed Connections

 

My digits?  What kind of message is that?  I didn't know if he meant me or not, but I wasn't about to reply to something so...curt, so lacking in any hint of romance.

I did know he meant me.  I remembered him, sort of.  There were two of them, together forlornly when I brought my shopping cart back to the car.  They were parked in the bay behind me, the Nissan with the hood up, the guys with their mouths down.  I set about shifting my purchases into my Merc and struggled to get the pressure washer box up and over the wire (so how was I going to be able to use it? - but that's another story...).   The guy in red parka came over and offered to help, got it where I wanted it, and I thanked him.

"Are you in a hurry to get away?" he suddenly asked.  When a random man asks you that in a parking lot you the alarms start blaring, so I played it cautious.

"I do have someone waiting for me so I really need to get going."

"Oh, OK, it was just in case you had time to help me out.  I'd left the lights on too long and battery's flat.  If I could find someone to give me a jump start |I'd just be so grateful."

He seemed genuine enough.  He had helped me out.  And I'd lied, there was nobody waiting and no rush to be anywhere.  I looked at red parka man, a spaniel waiting to be petted.  Then at his mate, blue puffa jacket guy, looking... at me, intently.  He looked away quick enough when our eyes met.  Harmless, or at least harmless enough, said my antennae.

RPM connected with my hesitation.  "It wouldn't take long, I've got the leads right here."  The smile half hopeful, half encouraging.  I looked around and there was nobody else he could ask for now, and one Samaritan deserves another, don't they?

So I closed the trunk lid, shifted my car around to be nose to nose, released the hood and he did the rest.  In less than four minutes the Nissan was purring away, my hood was back down and I was on my way home to my imaginary someone.  RPM had given profuse thanks.  BPJG never said a word.  He did look though.  A lot.  Had positioned himself so that he could always sneak a glance.  I thought I saw him grin as I pulled away.

It was Thursday when I was back into Craigslist.  I've no idea what made me have a sneaky look at the Missed Connections ads.  Sometimes I'd gone in there just for the laughs, the desperation that oozed from every line.  

'Tractor Supply Friday (Stephensville)'  I'd been there on Friday so clearly my brain would want to click.  And there it was.  Words springing from the sparse sentences.  Shy.  REALLY want you number.  Fate.  Friend a jump start.  I really want them - your digits.   

Surely not me?  Surely me?  Otherwise the coincidence level...  This was my grinning silent admirer, Mr BPJG.  Had I thought him cute?  I really couldn't remember much beyond the sly glances and that final grin.  No, he couldn't have my digits.  Really, he couldn't.

I forgot all about him.  I almost forgot all about him.  OK, I sometimes wondered if I'd made a mistake.  It wasn't like I had admirers queued up at the door, and dating in your forties was proving more of a challenge than I could handle.  But if I'd made a mistake it was just another one in a long, long line.  So?

Four months or so passed.  I was back in Tractor Supply again. It was a hot day, a Friday.  Looking in Lawns & Gardens for fertiliser and a new hose cart.  Looking, looking, and then looking up.  At a shopping cart stopped dead centre of the aisle.  At a stupid grin above it.  At those eyes which had watched me so intently.

He came towards me, opened his mouth, and I waited for sound to emerge.  And waited.  The look sinking from joyful to crestfallen.

"Still shy?" I asked.  He nodded, still dumb.  "Still REALLY want my... digits?"

"You read it?"  My turn to nod.  The puppy looked happy again.  "I can speak, really, it's just..."

He'd made me laugh and that was enough.  

"I'm nearly done in here."  I looked at his empty cart.  We looked.

"Err... I'm done too."  I couldn't help my quizzical expression.  "I don't come in to buy.  I've been coming most Fridays since, you know...  Sometimes weekends."

"For me?"  He looked into the emptiness of his basket.  "Just to say thanks for getting your buddy's car going maybe?  Or do haunt this place for the atmosphere?"

"No, no, it's just that you wouldn't go from my head and I wanted to see you and I knew the ad was a long shot but maybe coming here I'd see you again and even if I didn't it helped me keep your face in my head and I always thought that maybe there was a chance and sometimes I didn't and..."  He stopped himself, somehow, eyes lit up and shining, waiting.

"Sounds like I just gave another jump start.  Always good to know I can still do it.  Think it's time to head for the register?"  I smiled.  I smiled a smile that let him smile back, that turned Mr BPJG into Mr Mine.

We don't go to Tractor Supply much.  But when we do we get two carts.  And one of them stays empty

Footnote :  The story derived from a Craiglist ad, in the Dallas listings, which went as follows -

"Tractor Supply Friday (Stephensville)'    I wish i wasnt so shy . cause i REALLY want your number!! Maybe fate will let you see this !! You gave my friend a jump start ... So can i have them please?! Your digits?!"