I was at the sweet shop this dinner time getting some Liquorice Allsorts. The man serving me said: ‘I know you. I’ve seen you before. Not here. Someplace else.’
It happens to me a lot. In Yorkshire where I’m visiting, not in Hampstead where I live. Nobody sees anybody in London.
I look a lot like someone else. A famous person that is. A girl once told me I looked more like this other fellow than I looked like myself. When we went to bed it was like she was having sex with the Famous One. I hope he enjoyed it.
The man in the shop weighed the confectionery and took hold of a small white paper bag from a batch he had attached by string to a nail. He licked two fingers to facilitate his snapping the bag open. My stomach churned with nausea. He twirled the bag closed. The way they do; grocers and the like. Like they’re performing a magician’s trick. Hocus pocus. Now open, now closed.
‘That’ll be sixpence halfpenny,’ he said, and he handed me the soiled bag. I squinted at the sweet jar forcing him to say. ‘It’s just over the quarter. I could take one out if you prefer,’ his disdain daring me to answer in the affirmative.
I let it go. Too timid that’s me. I bet he does this to all his customers. Those ha’pennies soon add up.
The Chancellor of the Exchequer might learn a few lessons at that shop.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 