On the High Seas of Love by Steve Goodlad

We could have been sailing on the seas of love. He had definitely been the one I thought. His Dad has a boat “near the pier”. I’d dreamed of Dorset where I once went as a kid with hidden beaches and crystal-clear water only accessible by sea. I imagined laying back in his tanned 

arms, sipping champagne with the sunset turning the sky pink as we planned our future together. He’d said nothing to dispel those dreams, just smiled in that disarming way I’d first seen on his profile. 

He met me off the train and we headed into town and I looked at swimwear in the clothes shops and found a sarong, a wide brimmed straw hat and pink boat shoes. He said I looked nice. 

I know I sound as though I’m bragging but we had lunch in a Wetherspoons, then wandered through the park, my hand holding his as I gazed into his hazel eyes. At something called the Trencherfield building, he showed me where he is studying at the Academy of Live and Recorded Arts and I just knew he was a future film-star. He told me how handy it was due to the proximity to home and I looked around but I couldn’t see anything but apartment blocks when I was expecting a mansion with security gates and guard dog signs. 

He asked if I’d ever read George Orwell and I remembered a book about farm animals we were supposed to read for GCSE but I never got beyond the first few pages. His boat was at Wigan Pier he said and I was lost for words. 

“I get sea-sick” I told him when I saw the knackered old tub. 

“That’ll teach him.” 

My best friend uttered words of comfort back in the pub. 

Published in Issue #19

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