I'm sorry to deceive you. This isn't the story I promised. It can't be. I changed my mind. No, that's not right. Nothing changed. It was always going to be this way.
My thoughts keep returning to a girl. A girl I met but never knew. My friends called her "the grey girl" or "the chimney". Both were fair descriptions. She was weighed down by some recent tragedy. There were rumours, probably exaggerated. But maybe not. She smoked a lot. And I never saw her smile. I think.
The truth is hard to fathom. My clearest memory of her, is a game of pool that we never played. Was it a dream remembered just too vividly? It is still crystal clear, after nearly twenty years.
I was early to lunch one Saturday. Most Saturdays. As usual I drifted to the pool room to bash a few balls about. The stink of stale beer kept most people away. Especially those still nursing hangovers. She wandered in as I was stuffing newspaper down the pockets. I blushed. She might have smiled, then.
Bravely I asked if she wanted to play. And she said no. But she moved closer. Close enough to smell the smoke on her, over the beer on the floor. As I broke off, I wondered if her jeans were really grey, or a very pale blue. I wanted to tell her that I wasn't like my friends. It was true. But I acted like them, so why would she believe me?
As I lined up each shot, I thought of something to say. After the shot, I didn't say it. She said nothing. She was chain smoking. I made no effort to hide my glances at her. Did she pity me or despise me? Was I any more than a leaf blowing in the wind? I did not even ask her name.
For six months, every night in the college bar was an opportunity missed. No-one else saw it. I confided in one friend, once. He mocked me. It was my mistake. Then she was gone. Switched to another college, someone said. Or dropped out. I never saw her again. I never asked her name.
My brother and I used to play snooker for hours on a tiny table at our parents' house. We would talk about any old rubbish. The score was kept only to roughly measure the passing of time. It was very therapeutic. Much better to talk about crap than dwell on our real problems. Problems were private.
He's doing well. Always had lots of friends. Got a good job, a wife, a house, some kids. I don't envy him. I don't know him.
After college I remember the day my friend Ben called round with bad news. Terrible news. We went to the snooker club. It was a Saturday, but no-one else was there. No scores were kept. Barely anything was said. Ben played some good shots. When I got home, I cried. That was the end, in a way.
There's no sense to it. A game of pool, snooker. A life. Resolve evaporates, then returns, and fades again. This view is stunning. So beautiful. A seemingly eternal frame. Taken for granted. Understood by instinct. Warm and then cold. Unfriendly. Not enough, anymore.
It isn't much of a story, now I come to read it back. I wish you could see what I can see, right now. Nice view. Soon it will be dark.