It was a hot, sultry summer night in Skegness. The war was over and not long off the troop train and dressed in my scratchy, ill-fitting demob suit I made for the bar where I knew she would be playing.
She was Samantha, my girl. We had been walking out before the war began. We had written letters for a while: then that stopped.
The prisoner-of-war camp had been punitive, but I came away with my body intact, but maybe not my mind. I just wanted to get on with my life.
It was hot and the ceiling fan struggled to cool the bar. There were few customers yet. I watched her set up her stool and sit at the piano. She was older, thinner, more haggard than in the picture I still carried in my wallet.
She didn’t notice me. She tinkled the ivories, I couldn’t make out a tune, she was only limbering up. Then the notes began to make sense. She played the melody and in my head together we sang along.
Then she saw me. The shock and confusion in her eyes was a kick in my guts. She couldn’t quite recognise me: then she did.
She self-consciencely stopped playing. She couldn’t hide her fear. She didn’t want me there. I was her past, not her present or future.
She stared down at the keyboard.
‘Play it Sam,’ I whispered.
‘No,’ she mumbled.
‘Play it.’
My tears flowed as the haunting melody played. ‘We’ll Meet Again.’
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 