If only...... (standard:romance, 1077 words)
Author: Earl	Added: Mar 28 2001	Views/Reads: 4152/2460	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A visit to a bank takes the person in the story back to his old college days and a girl he used to know. If only....

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

create a scene in her own bank, would she? He would simply be looking 
her up as an old friend with no other intention whatsoever. 

But what if she wasn’t attached? What if she was free tonight? He was
staying in the city and had no prior engagements. Until now, his 
intentions for that evening was a meal in the hotel, a call home, an 
evening in the bar and, according to custom, staggering to bed the 
worst for wear when all other hotel guests has exhausted their 
entertainment value. 

He would ask her to dinner at that restaurant they had been to on her
seventeenth birthday all those years ago, he had seen it was still open 
from the taxi from New Street Station earlier. Wouldn’t it be funny if 
that waiter who laughed at their antics with chopsticks was still there 
and remembered them. He would arrange to meet her at the clock in the 
Bullring, just as they used to and then wondered if she would wear her 
black velvet jacket. 

He remembered that jacket, it made her waist look even slimmer than it
was such that when his arms went round her,  he felt as if he could 
break her delicate little frame in two. 

It struck him how much he wanted to hold her again, his little image of
times gone and opportunities passed by. He wanted her and his youth 
back, to whisper in her sweet ear that he was sorry and that he would 
never go away again. To feel her willingly against him and responding. 

Oh Fi, what a stupid mistake I made. If only........ 

He was so lost in thought that he was oblivious to the door opening. 

“Miss  Bingley will see you now” said the girl. 

With a murmur of thanks, and thinking no further ahead that the effort
required to put one foot in front of the other, he walked into her 
office. 

His eyes met her gaze, and he found himself looking at a portly woman of
about fifty in a suit of conservative tweed, a string of pearls and on 
onyx brooch. His mouth fell open in surprise as he looked at the name 
on a plaque on her desk. It said “Miss Freda Bingley” 

“Can I help you?” she said in a cultured Yorkshire accent. 


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