A thin line between reality and fantasy...

I've always been interested in writing, to the point where I was constantly told I should've done English in college and maybe beyond. I decided the people telling me that didn't know what they were talking about. Probably a big mistake, to be honest. Still, the interest has kept up to the point where I've done the odd bit of fiction here and there, but nothing major. In an attempt to expand my horizons I thought I'd give something like this a go, although with not having too much experience in this kind of writing I decided to make the setting around two people going to the match. It seemed to work - after all, that is one area that I'm pretty comfortable with! Hope this reads alright and someone, somewhere enjoys it.

The sun shone brightly as a beautiful day did not look like ending even at this stage of the evening. It had been a glorious day so far and the sunshine had put him in a good mood as he wandered up the steps, pint in hand, to take his spot. Not even the thought of what was going to happen on the pitch was enough to knock him off his stride, so what else could?

Then, suddenly, he realised. She was here. For the first time in months.

'Oh for fuck's sake', he thought. This was not what he needed right now. But there she was, summer dress on, looking radiant. And there he was, half cut, sweating like a proverbial pig in the sweltering heat and with a large group of his mates inbetween himself and her.

What to do? How to approach this delicate situation? He could not just go striding off to talk, he would never hear the end of it. Not to mention the fact that she would probably find it a little unnerving. Time to play it cool, other people would move around, you both would need to move out of the way of anyone coming past, so rely on that to get close and it will be easy to look across, say hello and start a conversation.

Some hope.

She stayed talking to her friends. He could hear her speak over the chatter of everyone else. The sound of her beguiling voice was some comfort, albeit a slim one. He strained to listen, but it was no good. Conversation was flowing far too well amongst his own group to pay any real attention. Although, that did work favourably for him in some instances. The odd louder joke or comment did draw her attention towards their direction. But then their eyes would meet briefly, a smile would be shared and then their gazes would be directed back towards the pitch.

"Jesus Christ, I'm making a right mess of this. How the fucking hell am I at least going to say hello?"

It didn't get easier. The eye contact and shared laughs got a little more frequent, but the latter was more of a communal happening throughout everyone nearby. It was not enough.

"Bollocks to this, I'll collar her on the way out, even if it's just a quick 'alright, how you doing?' That'll do, it's conversation."

So, he waited. Patiently. Until, finally, his chance came as she moved past him and looked up with an expression that summed up everything they'd just seen.

"See you next year," she said.

He smiled. And laughed. He watched her walk away, resplendent in her flowery dress. Pining. And then, she was gone. For who knows how long. He stood there and pondered the situation, the moment, the missed opportunities. Then he had a sudden realisation.

'Did I just fucking laugh? Oh wonderful, I've just made a right cunt of myself and it'll be too fucking late to try and explain my way out of that one next time I see her. If I see her. If I could explain it. Bollocks.'

And so, he left. And wondered. He knows full well that she will never, ever be his. There is still a faint hope that things might change eventually, but in reality friendship was all he asked. But making a fool of himself like that on the increasingly rare occasions he saw her was going to do him no favours at all.

And he knew it.