All That’s Waiting is Regret…

I slink into the club, head to the dressing rooms. Empty. Thank goodness! I hurry to the mirror, only a few of the lightbulb sockets have bulbs in them. I reach for the concealer, start applying it to the bruising beneath my eye.

“Whatever are you doing?” ask the acidic tones of owner and resident chanteuse, Verity Sharp.

Her query nearly cause me to jab the makeup pad into my eye.

“Just putting my face on, Vert,” I reply.

“Let me have a look,” she strides over and cradles my face between her hands.

“This must stop, Trudie. You cannot let someone who says he loves you do this.”

“It’s this blasted war…” I try not to cry, but my eyes tear up. “He went out to France, invalided out at Dunkirk and—“

“That gives him an excuse to knock you about? I thought you were clever. This isn’t the first time, you have to confront him.”

I squirm miserably, I hate confrontation. It’s alright for her, she can face down anyone.

“Is he in?” Brad the pianist asks Verity. The club is pretty full, but Verity spots him, his cane hanging on the back of his chair.

“He sent her flowers. As if a bunch of dead plants could make up for assault.”

“When’s Trudie up?”

“Last spot before the interval.”

I’m shaking as I place a bouquet of roses on the piano and step onstage. Brad plays a plaintive melody, and I start singing. I look around the sea of faces, my voice pours out my pain and loss in melodic form.

Part of me screams, it’s not his fault, my beautiful boy’s heart is broken by memories of fallen comrades. The other, remembers the Bible, love is kind.

I gather up the bouquet, walk off stage and down the steps onto the dance floor. I pass by tables of whispering soldiers and civilians. The piano music continues until I stop by his chair.

I sing the final chorus of the song. My intended target skewered by the directness of the lyrics; words I would never dared say to him before today. Our eyes meet as I drop both roses and his ring into his lap. During the applause, he flees into the bombed streets around the club.

Outside, he runs into Trudie’s boss and her sax player.

“I hope you got the message, young man,” Verity states.

“Yeah, you creep, she doesn't wanna see you again.”

The broad-shouldered, rugby playing, proud man starts to cry. He knows his temper cost him his future wife.

“Don’t come here again,” Verity insists. “Go. Sort yourself out. See a doctor.  After this bloody war is over. Who knows? Trudie has this ridiculous notion that people can change. Maybe, she’ll want you back in her life.”

1946, down the aisle, arm in arm with someone who adores me. Everyone smiles except one man.

Jar of Hearts - Christina Perri

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=dz7BGlgb5Do&pp=ygUdY2hyaXN0aW5hIHBlcnJpIGphciBvZiBoZWFydHM%3D