The Harbour Wall

I will not let Mrs. Gable pick my date again.

It is a small rebellion, but it is mine. For five years, I have stood on this stretch of shingle, shovelling wet sand into intricate turrets and moats, while Mrs. Gable from the post office has paraded a different local man through the championship dinner each night. First it was the fishmonger, then the vicar’s nephew, then a man who smelled faintly of damp wool and regret. I smiled, I ate the roast beef, I let them hold my chair. And when I won—which I did, every single time—they clapped for the castle, not for me.

This year, I am thirty-seven. I have calluses on my palms and sand permanently embedded in my cuticles. I am done being the polite afterthought to my own success.