Fireworks

I didn’t expect fireworks when we met for the first time but hoped for a spark. Set up on a blind date by the friend of a friend, my expectations weren’t high. You were good looking enough; bleached hair slicked back, leather jacket faded and patched. Piercing blue eyes scanned me from mousse-tousled hair to scuffed Doc Martins. No fireworks for you either.

‘Drink?’ you grunted, nodding in faint approval when I asked for a pint of Caffreys rather than wine or spirits.

As you headed for the bar, the only spark was from your lighter when you lit your cigarette.
Bending to kiss me at the end of the evening, your lips were warm. It was…nice. It didn’t set my world alight.

You must have felt the same because we mutually agreed to part ways.

We often saw each other at parties and concerts because we moved in the same circles, and sometimes ended up together at the end of the night.

Your kisses stopped feeling nice and my body started to fizz, as if a fuse had been lit.

A year later my engagement ring sparkles as brightly as the fireworks you ignite whenever we are together.