Fantasizing about seeing you again used to be one of my favourite past times. I liked to imagine I had transformed myself completely: I would be confident, laughing at something someone had said. In the (extremely) flattering light, my eyes would be twinkling; my shiny (and devoid of stray-grey and/or frizzy) hair would be falling in waves down my back. I would be at least 10 kilos lighter. You would spot me across the room and our eyes would meet, and your expression would exclaim: how could I let her go?!

Depending on my level of self-esteem, the fantasy would then involve you pursuing me over a period of time until I felt you had paid sufficient dues, and proven the extent of your emotional growth, (in hindsight, it is clear to me that this scenario would have necessitated a complete personality transplant on your part); or I would deliver a drop-dead line that would render you crushed and speechless before I walked away.

Forever.

To a Nancy Sinatra soundtrack.

In reality, I saw you again almost 11 years to the day of our first meeting. You were standing on a tube platform, talking to a friend.

It was a shock to see you after all this time; the first since the mediation to finalise our divorce, the third since the night you left. You hadn’t changed at all; still boisterous and cavalier as I approached with the wave of commuters moving down the platform. I held my breath as I passed you: the man who once knew all my secrets. I thought I detected a flicker of recognition in your eyes, but I could tell that you were finding it hard to place me.

I wasn’t surprised; the woman who was once married to you is unrecognisable to me too.

I found myself smiling as I reached the far end and stood to face the mice scampering amongst the empty West-bound train lines.

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