Crush

He could not judge the state of her mind, not even a dozen years ago when he’d had a lingering High School crush on her.
He did not go to her wedding on principle – the principle being that she was marrying The Seaweed, a man whose face, as they say, could turn a funeral procession up a cul-de-sac.
Why, though, had she stopped speaking to him? Was she angry? And if so, why? If anyone deserved anger it was him, because he – a bachelor – still loved her deeply whereas she had married The Seaweed.
When he saw her, usually on a Saturday in Roddie Smith’s buying a Guardian and a glossy magazine – Cosmo was her favourite – or in Woolies leafing through the CDs (Cassandra Wilson, Buddy Holly, R.E.M.) he always reclaimed his gaze with a split-second laziness that embarrassed them both.
It frequently occurred to him how complete her life was – a cottage in Lochs, marriage, a wealthy father – in comparison with his sorry life (a council flat in Stornoway, a crumbling boat, a shrinking circle of friends). Why did High School hardmen like The Seaweed, who could barely write and had taken insane pleasure in smashing fire alarms towards the end of term - why did that sort prosper in life whereas he – who had been resolutely dìcheallach all his school-going days, found himself shaking, at times, with depression in a draughty grey council flat.
She meanwhile slept in the same bed as The Seaweed.
The Seaweed slept in the same bed as her.
He remembered her in music class. Her fingers assimilated new jazz chords like the dance of a wee girl’s legs on wet stepping stones. One airy blue day in that classroom she had held his hand and had allowed him to kiss her and it seemed as though her love flew around him like a boundless net. After an initial shyness, he grew confident and told her a barrage of jokes.
He could no longer remember his jokes but he recalled how her laughter was pure and melodious as a diamond bell. Sitting on his cold bed at night he would hear this bell and resolve to ask her next Saturday why she no longer spoke to him, what he had done wrong.

dìcheallach - diligent

Original work from Love and Zen in the Outer Hebrides © Kevin MacNeil and Canongate Books 1998