I sit in the station refreshment room, eating sausage and chips. The businessman on the other side of the table is much older than myself.
Since university I’ve always dined alone. It isn’t shyness, I just don’t feel the need to be around people. I’ve tried to take an interest in football or the latest band but my heart isn’t in it. I can’t see the point.
Despite this – perhaps because of this – people find me attractive. What is it they say about the ‘silent type’? I’m not bad looking, my features are even, my teeth gleam, I have long eyelashes that showcase sparkling blue eyes. People have fallen in love with me because of those lashes. A boy at school wrote me a poem about them, torn from his maths exercise book. I still have it somewhere.
The man opposite me has latched on to the lashes. I hold my coffee mug to my ruby lips, even though it’s empty and I wait for him to compose himself.
There’s a certain type of man, sensitive, thoughtful, allergic to clubs and pickup joints. They use the word ‘soulmate’ when they talk to me.
We go to his flat. I know what he wants and it isn’t to roll about on the bed. I let him talk, I hardly listen. My only fear is he’ll want to meet up again. I let him talk himself dry and then gratefully pocket the cash ‘for the taxi home’ he presses into my hand.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 