PJ's Horseshoe - SEX MATTERS

Grabbing the wooden door I wrenched it back pulling the bracken and weeds with it. Light entered the old tack room along with me and my eyes immediately found the window at the end. There it was, just where she put it fifteen years ago.

Cobwebs decorated the surrounding frame as the sun shone through the glass. I looked at my watch. 3 o’clock exactly.

But what was I thinking? She’d probably forgotten.

Picking up the horseshoe I remembered her words.

“Whatever happens, wherever we are and whoever we know, let’s meet in 2000 – same time as we always do now. Look I will put PJ’s shoe here. Of course, I will come back for it. Believe me – my first pony. My lucky horseshoe. ”

Her parents owned the stables. And Jess taught me to ride. I came from the poorer side of town. We’d meet each day after school at 3 pm in the tack room for my lesson. Then after, I would clean and muck out as payment. But our souls danced together while riding across the moors and we fell in love. I can still picture us in the summer making out on the hay bales, and the winter in the tack room with the heater on.

Two years past. It was September and she was due to start at an Oxford college. Whereas I’d managed to secure an apprenticeship with the local car mechanics – different worlds. That evening we missed the riding and holding her up against the saddle rack I yanked her jodhpurs down and we fucked, animals, like it was the last time. Understanding that life at Oxford would not leave time for the boy at home we’d split up.

I sat around for an hour – hoping she’s be true to her words.

I’d heard her family sold up ten years ago for the new motorway to furrow their land, yet leaving the old stables intact. By then I was in London. Lucky break with Rolls Royce.

I married but knowing I shouldn’t want this, divorced.

I never forgot.

Guess she did.

After an hour I took one last look at the horseshoe and pulled the door shut.

Back at my parents, I let whisky accompany my thoughts while they went out to a new years eve party.

Next day, looking through old albums, I mused over a photo of Jess and me kissing at a new years eve gathering. We were seventeen. I stared at it. Something was niggling me. Then I realised what it was. She’d said –

“Meet in 2000, ” meaning new years day 2000, not new years eve!

It was quarter to three. Could I make it? Driving like a maniac I cut the half hour journey to twenty minutes. Quiet being a bank holiday.

I sprinted across the field as the rain finally stopped and the sun peaked through the clouds. Turning the corner to the old stable my heart shone too.

The tack room door was open.

Maybe this would be a good year after all.