Tom sat there on that park bench, staring at his shoes, newly polished that very morning. How long he’d sat there he did not know. The flowers he’d bought had wilted on his lap and the pain in his lower back told him that it had been a while.
The first hour or so, Tom reasoned, he must have just sat there blankly, thinking of nothing, feeling nothing. A pigeon, growing brave and brushing past his leg had woken him from his trance, stirring in him all the emotion of the day, all the emotion of the previous day and the day before that. Of every day (and night) for the last six years. Since the day he had met her, since he had seen Sarah for the first time. Love at first sight may exist, but that is not what Tom had felt. The strongest love, the strongest feelings; the feelings Tom had for Sarah, they grew.
Tom couldn’t pin down the moment in time when he first began to love her. Was it a slow change or did it happen over night? He tried to think of that day when he realised he wanted her, needed her. He couldn’t. He remembered the first time she had made him laugh, as they drank and watched stupid films all night. She would be talking and Tom would be stealing glances at her face and these dark brown eyes. Her smile seemed to go on forever; Tom smiled to himself as he thought of her smile. Tom remembered the first time he had made her laugh. How she bared her teeth and giggled. Tom smiled to himself as he thought of how much he wanted her then, when she had made those funny little snorting sounds, laughing at Toms joke.
Tom wanted to die when he thought of the guilt he had felt as he and his friends made fun of her flaws between themselves. Her crooked nose, her tiny breasts. Tom loved her small breasts and wanted to kiss her crooked nose.
Was it fear or inexperience that meant Tom had never told her how he felt? God, Mike had slept with more women than him, and Mike was gay. But no, that wasn’t it. He wasn’t scared of bad performance in bed; he wasn’t scared of fucking her. In fact, he didn’t care if they never slept together at all; he just wanted her to love him back. He wanted her to hold him and rub his back. Oh he’d dreamed of holding her in his arms; of walking up behind her and wrapping them around her waist, to be met with a loving, tender kiss. In Tom’s fantasies they’d married and grown old together, moved to a bigger house for the kids and the dog (Nigel); then they were young again, when their love was at its most passionate. They would go out to dinner, maybe take in a show. They could barely keep their hands off of each other as they tried to get through the door of their brand new designer flat. Tom kissed her and ran his hand through her hair. She began to unbutton his shirt, then nuzzled his chest lovingly. They would manage to get into the bedroom, eventually. There he would tend to every inch of her beautiful body, rubbing his cheek against her milky white thigh, planting kisses softly. He’d dreamt of waking and finding himself next to her in bed, of holding her close and sharing her warmth; Sarah still half asleep but awake enough to smile at their closeness.

Tom stood up to stretch his legs and was rewarded with a slow return of feeling to his buttocks. There was a dry patch on the bench where he had been sitting through that bitter downpour of rain. Tom shivered with his body’s realisation at just how cold he actually was. At the time, the rain had been a blessing, allowing Tom to sob, pitifully in his own self loathing. Tears streaming down his face, only to be hammered into nothing by the icy daggers of the rain. He’d wiped the snot welling up in his nostrils on the sleeve of his best jacket, while he whimpered like a fool. The snot had left a strange looking stain on his sleeve, like a gang of snails had started an unlawful protest, only to be met with military force.
Tom walked over to the bin by the bench and tossed the flowers in; they had been a stupid idea anyway. It’s not as if a bunch of flowers would make her feel the same way, no matter how much they had cost him.
He had made a mistake somewhere along the way, he knew that much. He just wasn’t sure when it was. Tom should have told her sooner, before she had started going out with that shit Jeff. He should have told her when she was going out with that shit Jeff, instead of waiting around, pretending not to care, pretending he didn’t love her. When she moved last year Tom was almost glad; perhaps if he didn’t see her for a while it would all go away. But it hadn’t worked like that. Tom still had her in mind every morning and every night, feeling slightly shameful at the moment of ejaculation, sometimes forcing himself to think of someone else at the point of no return. But now, when she had phoned last week, telling him about her split with that shit Jeff, Tom had known it was time. That’s why he had got dressed up and traveled all of this way. To see her.
Tom realised what his biggest mistake was though; as he walked on to his tube station. He had gotten to her house, to her front door. He had had his hand ready to knock. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Again he had just walked away, without her even knowing he was there.
‘Oh well,’ Tom thought to himself, ‘maybe next week.’