The odd chain of events Emma found herself in was laughable. Had it not been for the turn in the weather she'd have not found herself stuck where she was enduring the stories of those who shared the bar with her. She had grown weary in her old age and found being surrounded by strangers did not have the same appeal as it did when she was younger. Emma felt she had earned the right to be disagreeable and had not wished to participate in telling of stories.

The smell of rain in the air, dust on the concrete floor and stale beer filled their lungs. The humidity in the air was stifling as fans whirled above bringing little relief. After the previous story the jovial banter grew louder and Emma felt the time was right to tell her story.

"Hark," Emma pronounced over the banter around her. When it drew noone's attention but the bartender, who shrugged, Emma barked louder."Hark. For I too have a story to tell."

The room went silent with stares from absurdity to bewilderment directed toward Emma.

The tales thus far had been amusing. Now Emma wanted to set the scene for her story and to achieve that she needed their undivided attention. Which had until that point been difficult to achieve. With their attention now on her, Emma sat herself tall upon the rickety bar stool, cleared her throat and dropped the forced smile from her face. She averted her eyes before glancing past those gathered, lost in the past, as her sombre voice rang out around the silent listeners.

It began in 1986 on a warm sunny summer's afternoon in Adelaide. I was a fine young woman of twenty; very dapper dressed in cream linen pants and white crisp shirt. I wore my father's workman's boots. He had recently passed and to help me through my grief I had come to realise these boots weren't that difficult to fill. They were the kind that could take any treatment. My father loved those boots and when they were on my feet I was remind of the strong determined character of my father and I knew I wanted to shape my life in much the same way. I wore my pants tucked into the boots, to display their presence on my feet. Alone and ready to experience the world; I was on my way to achieve my dream of being a travel writer.

I walked with airs and grace. My brown hair cut short, my shoulders back proudly – I owned the world and the world did stare in wonder. Some disapproved of my manner of dress but I didn't care for their opinion. I had dreams and plans and no one was going to stand in my way.

This particular afternoon I was walking down a street known for its popular cafés and restaurants. I attended a meeting with a magazine editor who was keen to have me on board. The work was a small step in the right direction and after an agreement had been made – I found myself gainfully employed. The swagger in my step and the smile on my face spoke volumes. I never thought I could be as happy as I was at that moment.

As I made my way across the road a rather interesting turn of events occurred. When I reached the other side and went to step onto the footpath my boot caught the lip of the curb and I stumbled and almost fell. If not for theolder woman, dining at the café right in front of me, who knew at that moment I would trip. She was at my side before I hit the ground, pulling me up with care.

"Lucky I caught you." Her voice was mature and the kind that spoke volumes of character. She helped me to stand, and smiling,she continued, "I see it all time. This curb here is one inch higher in front of the café. I don't know why but I always try to catch those who misjudge it when I'm here."

"It happens often then?" I enquired, straightening my clothes before looking at her face. Bronze through years of seeing the sun, laughter lines around her eyes, she had an appearance of mischief and wisdom.

"Often, yes. Guaranteed there will be someone who needs assistance."

"Perhaps a sign should be put up or the curb painted to warn people."

"Well, there is that. But then where is the fun? How would I get to meet pretty young ladies such as yourself?"

"Do you always flirt with those you save?"

With her hand still under my elbow, she took a step closer and turned her face slightly towards mine. Her green eyes sparkled, I could smell coffee on her breath, and I thought I saw my future.

Her lips upturned on one corner she quietly mouthed, "Only the ones who I take an interest in."

I'd never been one to be lost for words. I don't know what happened that day but when she invited me to join her for coffee – I did. I never told her I didn't like coffee – in her presence I'd have drunk anything. We shared our first names and nothing more. Her name was Monique and I didn't realise then it was slowly being tattooed across my heart. We talked in general about things not related to anything in particular. She continued to flirt with me and I hinted my interest. We talk for hours and I never wanted it to end. But as the night grew and more people ventured out, we became quiet and watched yet another person trip up the curb.

We laughed.

"I told you?"

She could have told me anything and I'd have believed her.

That night I saw the stars in her eyes and knew I would never be able to reach them.

We existed in a moment and then it was over. I left Adelaide a week later and I would not return for another twenty-eight years. But I never forgot the gleam in her eye and the smile on her face.

My work took me all over the world. I saw and met many remarkable people. But none compared to Monique. I never settled down, never met the right person. There never seemed to anyone whom I could match my feeling for Monique with. I never thought this a burden. I was honoured to have met and loved – even for the shortest of periods.

When I did return to Adelaide, it was twenty-eight years later to attend the funeral of an old family friend. I had not forgotten Monique, or our encounter. The afternoon was cool; the winter sun low and patchy grey clouds scattered with no threat of rain. I found myself once again down this same street. It wasn't as I remembered it, however, there was still a café where the original one was. I approached it from the same side of the street. The curb looked no different at a glance – it wasn't painted or marked and I wondered – had it been repaired?

Given the temperature of the day, I wore a blue knitted jumper made for me by a friend in Montreal. My fawn cotton pants were tucked into my workman's boots. Coincidentally enough the same pair I had worn all those years ago.

Emma took a moment to deliberately pause during her story. It was too easy to tease her listeners, and she did so with delight.

"Is that it?" One of the writers asked.

"That can't be your story, that's..." one of the male writers said lost for words.

A mischievous smile crept across Emma's face before it faded and she continued.

Curiosity got the better of me and I sat out the front of the café, ordered a coffee and waited and watched. I ordered a second coffee, convinced I would not be seeing anyone trip up the curb any time soon. I sat with one leg crossed over the other, as I slipped my coffee – a drink I had come to love – for its smell transported me back to the time I spent with Monique. I stopped watching for people crossing the road and looked down at my boots. Old and worn, repaired more times than I cared to remember, but still the same pair I had always worn. They had become my signature as had been tucking my pants into them. Those who knew me well – knew I treasured my father's boots above many things.

At the completion of my second coffee I pondered what to do next when I noticed an elderly gentleman crossing the road towards me. He moved at a slow pace, walking stick in hand to steady him. As he neared the curb my concerns for his safety grew. I was still unsure if the curb was one inch higher – surely it had been repaired after all these years. But should he fall, I didn't like to think the damage it might cause him. I stood in anticipation and as he lifted his foot, it caught and he stumbled forward. I was there to catch him and so was another woman.

We both caught the elderly gentleman and as our eyes met, I found myself falling once more into their gaze.

I couldn't focus on the situation at hand and Monique took over, helping the elderly gentleman to steady himself and seeing him on his way. I never heard the gentleman's thanks, nor saw when he moved off. I continued to stare at the woman before me.

"Still wearing those boots I see."

The laughter had never left her eyes and although her face was weary with age I could still see the mischievous glint that dwelled deep within.

I invited her for coffee and accepting my invitation, she joined me at the table.

Once seated, I took in her appearance. It was then I noted her arthritic hands, the slight stoop in the frame and the grey through her hair. Yet she looked as beautiful as the first day we had met.

We talked as though the years since our last meeting did not exist. We talked about everything and nothing at all. I discovered she had been following my career and I asked why she never tried to contact me. Monique replied with a smile and I understood why she never had. As the weather grew older and the wind stronger I reached out across the small round table and took Monique's hands in mine. They were cold and I caressed my fingers over hers.

"I have something for you."

I had not been expecting anything from her and therefore the gift she gave me came as a surprise. Monique removed her hand from mine and placing her hands behind her neck carefully removed a small gold chain contain a tiny heart shaped locket. With trembling fingers she took my hand and placed the necklace in it. My sudden disbelief at the gift almost had me refuse it but as I gazed into Monique's eyes I did not question her actions.

"It belonged to my mother. I want you to have it."

Soon after, we parted ways. Our farewells were full of smiles but there was no denying the underlying regret that lay hidden beneath the surface.

It was not until I had returned to my hotel room that I cried at the anguish of wondering what might have happened if I'd stayed all those years ago.

The mood among the crowd was quiet. Emma fondled the small heart on the chain around her neck before the chatter erupted and her story was forgotten. Emma scanned the window, rain splattering against the glass. Frustration dwelled within her. Such a waste of a good story to strangers who were more interested in their own. Emma knocked back two more beers, chatted with the barman and ignored the rest of the talk. Instead she wondered if the time had come to write fiction. A title had already come to mind –Psycho Sally and The Disappearance of Nine Writers.

Now wouldn't that be a coincidence.

Emma wondered if Monique would like the idea and thought to ask her on her return home.