On Shifting Sands

The company Christmas party was in full swing, people had saved clothing stamps for months so that they could celebrate in their finery. She stood at the edge of the room, her long blonde hair beautifully arranged, her smart suit standing out amongst the other office girls' attire, looking around for the face she wanted to see.
If she had been asked what attracted her to him she would have given the answer that he was reliable. Reliability is probably not the most romantic way to choose a life partner, but to her reliability equated hard-working, promotion, money and a life she greatly desired. An escape from the slightly suffocating attentions of her parents. The only flaw she could see was that his adoration, steadfastness and reliability had only presented itself to her in the form of letters. She had met him once (or maybe twice) in person, when he visited the head office from his lowly country branch, and he had asked if he may write to her. He did write, and wrote every day- a letter filled with compliments and affection and peppered with the doings of his mundane life. She knew she did not want to live his country life with him, but he was well thought of and there was an opening in head office, he could easily move to London and they could live their life there.
She looked around, it seemed he was not here yet. Impatient to dance her eye settled on the office clerk, much less reliable, much less steadfast, but a lovely dancer none the less and a Londoner through and through. She smiled, stepped forward and stopped as she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see her steadfast admirer...
He walked up the sandy beach towards her, a squirming, dark haired child in his arms, sandy and damp from swimming in the sea. He placed the child beside her, smiling into her face. It was the light that caught her, the bright, calm Cornish sun creating warmth on her face. She turned to look at the welcoming beach hut behind her, and felt a feeling welling in her, an understanding this was her life now. Not in London, but here, in this dull, quiet county. Confusion...
And back to the dance. A time to choose, perhaps. Right here, right now was solid and real, her bedrock. Maybe if she stepped towards the office clerk she would see her future life with him.
One step...
A baby is placed into to her arms. Sweet smelling, tiny and oh so warm. She, herself is cocooned in an armchair in an immaculately tidy room. She has a sense that this house belongs to her. She can not work out who the baby is though. Looking up, horror fills her mind as two faces, identical to her face, but much older, look at her. A shake of the head, and it becomes clear, and she stares at the face of her great grand-daughter cuddling in her arms, her heart flooded with joy, just for a moment. And has this life been, full of adventure, excitement, bright lights and big cities? Is this the life she wanted? A photo on the wall caught her eye, the steadfast, reliable man. And the memories of this life suffocate her; respectable, filled with care, mediocre. A life lived well.
The sunlight spills through the conservatory roof, this soft, calm sunlight of the Cornish skies, beloved by artists- not the grey, exciting, noisy light of London. She wonders how she had ever left that city. But honestly, she must still be at that dance, this is just an all engulfing daydream. She can still choose. Back, back , through these softly dancing, shifting memories of a life she does not want to live.
She forces her brain to snap back to the present, to the party, with the chatter and the music and the dancing. She forces herself to ignore the reliable, steadfast man and turn to the clerk. With a smile he holds out his hand to step on to the dance floor.
One step....
"Ahh there you are. I bought you a cup of tea. You were daydreaming again."
A lady in a nurses uniform is standing by her chair offering her a cup. This time the armchair is hard and uncomfortable, her back held straight and her feet raised on a small footrest. A blanket is draped across her knees, decorated with ribbons and buttons. The room is filled with old people, maybe filled is the wrong word, six or seven others sit there looking at a television screen. The screen is huge, and in colour, from this distance she can not quite make out the pictures though.
Gently taking the proffered cup, she collects her thoughts, this does not quite feel like the life she would have expected to get. The sunlight streaming in the window is clear and bright, definitely not London. Still the same life. Still the life she did not want. The wave of emotions, pull her back to the dance, to try and conjure the life she desires.
Over and over, the bedrock of that moment of choice falls away and the memories flood back in, each feeling more real than the last. Almost as if this life has already been lived. Each shifting moment feels as if she has lived it, the fleeting joy she feels holding these future grandchildren and great grandchildren always with an undertow of disappointment. Then, a grasp at happiness, to get back to the dance and start again, then dragged away as another memory pulls her into the current, away from the dance. She wonders how she must appear to the others at the dance, standing there, immobile as these moving memories of a life she has not yet lived, and does not even think she wants to live, engulf her. She must choose.

The teacup tumbles to the floor, spilling its contents over the carpet. The impact makes hardly any sound, certainly not enough to be heard over the sound of the television in the day room of the nursing home. The staff will remember her, the residents maybe not, as their own memories twist and turn, shift and squirm in the confines of their now much muddled brains. But she will not care, she has found her way back to that one solid piece of bedrock in her life, to the choice she made many years ago. She has chosen differently this time.