Mr. Dixon walked up the path to the suburban semi. He examined the shiny red door for more than a moment, then instinctively put his hand in his pocket.
Mr. Dixon was seventy-something and when younger had been something in the Military. He moved to Liverpool sometime after he retired. He had long forgotten the wife who had left him and he hadn’t seen his grown-up children since he didn’t know when.
The thing he was looking for wasn’t in his pocket so he tried the other trouser pocket. Then the two side pockets of his blazer, then the inside pocket.
He stood confused then patted down his own body like at airport security. He found a key ring in the breast pocket of his shirt. He peered at it, as if seeing it for the first time. There were five keys of different sizes.
Mr. Dixon studied each in turn as his brain wrestled to recognise any of them. He took the one with a black cap and scrutinised it closely. What was he supposed to do with it. He knew that he knew, but he couldn’t work it out.
He began to panic. He took a smaller silver key and stared at it. What was this? His heart sped and his head throbbed. He shook, sobbed, and sank to his knees howling like a wolf.
The door opened and a middle-aged lady in an apron glared. Mr. Dixon did not live at this house and never had done.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 