Tainted Love by S. R. Morgan, age unknown, Guernsey

Stan had been courting her for weeks, months. Not that she knew, was aware. Every night he would follow her home from college. Then he would stand patiently, loyally, lovingly, in the stinking alley outside her flat: her guardian angel. His shoulders were always hunched, his collar up: body cold in the winter chill but hot inside, hot with passion and longing.

He’d only approached her the once: last week. She’d not yet realised the inevitability of their love. She’d brushed him off, rudely. Well, they all did that. He knew it might take a little time. He knew that from experience. He could wait.

There was one thing though, one thing that he would not tolerate: infidelity. She should have realised. After all, he was a man of principle. It was a big mistake for her to return to her flat tonight, holding hands with that young man.

Stan was standing there as usual: shoulders hunched, collar up, body cold in the winter chill and hot inside, hot now with rage, with fury.

He felt for the cold steel in his pocket and sighed. It was almost a relief. It had always come to this. He waited motionless until well after the patch of light had gone out in her bedroom.

It was time.

He slipped on his gloves and then was through the front door and up the stairs, quietly, nimbly with the consummate ease of experience. He was soon with them, his breath matching theirs for a short while.

It didn’t take long until there was just him: heart pounding, sobbing.

The pain, the ecstasy of his love was over………. until the next time.

The Fruits of Love by Sylvia Cohen, 65, London

I’m telling you, none of it was my fault. Problem was, she had eyes only for him, looked right through me. I followed her around like a shadow even when it meant watching her moon over him. Idiot, he was oblivious. Gave her orders though, said it came from that other one none of us saw. I didn’t believe him, neither did she, I could tell.

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