It was one night in a smoky, brass-lit club in 1942, the night pulsed with the melancholic strains of a jazz quartet. I hadn’t been there for more than a few minutes when I realised I was being picked up by a man much younger than myself.
Julian was tall and lean, standing with an easy, almost languid confidence. His hair was a glossy midnight black, meticulously slicked back framing a sharply defined face, his eyes – a deep hazel that shimmered with hints of amber when caught in the light – conveyed intensity.
He wasn’t there merely to bask in the transient glow of attention; he was searching for a kindred spirit amid the swirling fog of cigarette smoke and whispered confidences.
A brief conversation over a shared laugh near the polished mahogany bar evolved into a lingering exchange of reflections about life in a time marked by our shared war-weariness.
I took him home to my digs and we spent the night together – a quite disastrous night. You don’t need to know the details.
Later, back at his base he told one of his RAF mates, ‘It serves me right. I was out looking to find myself a rich husband, and what do I get? An impoverished wife.’
But here’s the rub: although I knew he was the sort of person I most disliked, a drinker, he used awful language, and had no finesse whatsoever – in spite of all that, Julian and I were together for the next twenty-five years.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 