The party had been going on for an hour. I hadn’t slept with a girl since Jessie dumped me for the guy in Accounts last summer. I told myself I didn’t care, except that it meant I wasn’t getting any.
I’d been watching this girl. She was my type, with a bit of meat on, not ‘fat’, but pleasantly plump. Plump girls are interesting, they need to have conversation, not like blonde stick insects who can’t string two sentences together.
I talk to her and she’s a typist, so maybe a stick insect after all. She tells me a story and insists I understand that this really happened to her.
She was passing an office building and she tells me its name and exactly where it was and I know she’s worked on this story like it’s part of her stand-up routine.
I admired her breasts heaving as she got worked up. She says she fainted and they carried her into a chemist’s shop. She tells anyone who will listen – and now’s telling me – she saw a girl fall from the building and crash at her feet. That’s what made her faint.
She paused for an eternity and I was about to lie about how interesting that was when she says that exactly eighteen months before a girl did fall from the building and she was killed on that very spot.
‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ she breathed excitedly.
I made an excuse and went to fetch myself another beer.
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 