Some flash fiction for a Friday by Vanessa Gebbie

Beer, wallet

You left your wallet. I will ring you, let you know. And no, I won’t do anything silly with the cards. I won’t even look for the photo of me you used to keep in the side pocket. I expect it’s gone. I need a drink. I expect I’ll go to the fridge, get one of your beers.

Maybe not.

You know, I remember the first time I knew I loved you. And the first time you knew it too. We were in a car, a few others. Can’t remember who, now, there was just you, to my right, your thigh, some tape playing, your leg jigging. I wanted to put my hand on your thigh, Feel you. Just that.

I needed cash. You pulled up at this cash point you knew. Empty street, then me on the pavement with my card, the door open. The music playing. I put my card in the machine, waited, listened to the music. If I turned round, I’d see the car. You. The others. Laughing. The door open, my place empty.

Pin number, it said. I tapped. 2648.
Nothing. I tapped again, 4826.
I knew those were the right numbers. The last two made a year that meant something. 2684. Nothing.

You turned off the music. My breathing was fast. A footstep. A hand on my shoulder.

“Jen? Problems?”

I turned. I couldn’t look up. There was a thread pulled on your jumper.

“I forgot my number,” I said. Then your hand under my chin, and you, bending down, making me look at you. The streetlight shone in my eyes, blinding me.

You took out your wallet. Same one. “Silly,” you said. Your voice, shaking.

* Vanessa Gebbie writes poetry and prose, and runs an online forum called Fiction Workhose – you can find out more about her work here +

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