It was during the pandemic, in a sleepy coastal town in Florida, that I met him—a retired Englishman running a shabby backyard eatery hidden behind an old bungalow. The streets were empty, the bars closed, but his place still had a faint glow, a table, and the smell of fried fish. We stopped for food—and stayed for his story.
He had spent his whole life in a small English town, working in a factory, raising six kids with his wife. After retirement, his wife left him—not because he drank or cheated (which he had always done)—but because she couldn’t stand having him around all day. Lonely and adrift, his mates invited him on a golf trip to the U.S.
He never played a hole. On his first night in Miami, he met a stunning younger woman—a waitress who gave him attention he hadn’t felt in decades. They partied, slept together, and she told him her mother was sick. He emptied his wallet trying to help her.
He returned to England only to sell off everything and move back. But the dream soured fast. She disappeared for weeks, claiming to care for her mother. He later learned she had no sick mother—no family at all. She was conning him while sleeping with other men.
Still, he loved her—foolishly. For years, he blew his pension on her monthly visits, surviving in cheap motels the rest of the time. Eventually, she left him for good.
Now, he lives with another woman—older, more practical, also looking for stability. They run this humble restaurant together. She sometimes sleeps with other men too, and he occasionally sees his ex when he has money. His kids no longer speak to him.
But he doesn’t seem bitter. Just… content with the quiet life, the food, the warm nights, and the illusion of peace.
