I’d had a hard day driving ten hours solid through blinding fog and I was dog tired, but I knew I wouldn’t sleep, so I before going home I stopped off at my local pub.
It’s a traditional bar and the customers live in nearby streets. I go there most nights and weekends when I’m not working away. Like in Cheers on TV it’s a place where everyone knows your name.
It was busy and I stood inside the door looking to see if any of the gang were in. I saw Reg who I’ve known since I moved to London, across the bar pretending to do the Times crossword. I waved but he didn’t see me.
I saw Julie too; she’s a friend of my ex-wife. I stood close to her and smiled, but she blanked me. I guess she still blames me for the breakup. Tony and his boyfriend were playing dominoes and jokingly I stood behind him and read out his dots. That should’ve got a groan of protest at least, but zilch. It was as if I wasn’t there.
It was only when I got to the bar I noticed my jacket had been badly ripped, I patted my pockets but my wallet was gone. I called Joe, the barman, but he was engrossed polishing glasses. I was gasping for a drink and told him so.
The news was on a television in the corner. BREAKING NEWS a caption read. Motorway pile-up in fog, dozens dead.
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 