The Second Valentine's Day Massacre

By Trevor Belshaw
Double Espresso with Whiskey Chaser

I climbed out of the model A Ford, closed the door behind me and tapped on the side of the car to signal Jimmy to pull away. We chose the Ford deliberately, a car so common that no one would remember. I would have liked to have travelled in style but we couldn’t risk Luigi’s Cadillac, someone would be sure to notice it.

I turned up my collar against the biting wind, pulled my hat down over my eyes and crossed the slush-covered street. It was quiet, but I was still wary. I looked around to check that I wasn’t being followed. I needn’t have worried, only a few people had braved the cold February night. I rapped on a glass panelled door and it was opened almost immediately by a guy wearing greasy trousers and a vest. He was sweating profusely, even though it was freezing cold in the hallway. He noticed my quizzical expression.

‘Laundry,’ he muttered. ‘We have a laundry at the back.’

I grunted and followed him upstairs to a room overlooking the street. My host nodded to the window and turned to leave, but before he reached the door I’d slipped the cheese wire round this throat. He died a minute or so later.

The dirty, single curtain was pulled across, so I stood to the side of the window and inched it open. Whoever had selected the vantage point had chosen well, I had a clear, unhindered view of the restaurant over the road. I pulled up a chair, lit a cigarette, checked my pocket watch and waited for Mary to signal.

At 8.30 I saw the light in the room at the side of the restaurant flick on and off twice. My audience had arrived, it was time to get the show on the road.

I took the stairs two at a time, then stood for a moment to give the adrenalin time to settle. Satisfied, I let myself out, checked the street as I crossed, then walked down the alley at the side of the restaurant.

Mary was at the back door with a smile on her lips and a glint in her eye. She looked good, even in her waitress clothes. She leaned forward and our lips touched. Her scent took me straight back to her bedroom, to one of the many nights we had spent together over the past few weeks. My eyes dropped to that wonderful chest, I felt the sap rise, I wanted her there and then, on the cold floor tiles.

Mary sensed what was going through my mind. ‘Easy Tiger.’

I nodded and forced my mind back to the job in hand.

‘They all here now?’

‘Yep. Frankie arrived through the back about ten minutes ago. He’s at the table with the others.’

‘No one else here?’

‘Only the cook, and he’s drunk.’

I eased open the door to the restaurant and peered in. They were sat in the centre, laughing, drinking the last whiskey they would ever drink.

‘Where is it?’ I whispered.

Mary dragged a case from under the worktable. I opened it and pulled out the Tommy gun. I pushed in a magazine, flicked off the safety catch and smiled at her.

‘OK, Honeybunch. Let’s get this thing done.’

Mary nodded and stood by the door. I winked and she threw it open.

I took a deep breath, stepped into the room and opened fire. The four diners were dead before they had a chance to turn their heads. I fired off another volley to make sure, then turned and hurried back to the prep room.

Mary was by the worktable, a Valentine card in her hand.

‘For you,’ she said.

I took the card and pushed it into my pocket, then pointed the gun at Mary.

‘Marco, no...’

I took in that look, the fear in those baby blue eyes and felt a sharp pang of regret, but pulled the trigger anyway. Mary was thrown across the room, almost cut in two by the hail of bullets.

The cook staggered in from the kitchen, a bottle of hooch in his right hand. I opened up and let him have it too. No witnesses, that’s just how it should be.

I stepped smartly out of the back door and walked further down the alley. I could hear raised voices coming from the front of the restaurant.

At the end of the alley I checked the street, then ran to the Ford where Jimmy was waiting, engine running. We drove to a quiet place by the Chicago river where I shot Jimmy in the back and tossed both him and the gun into the icy water.

I got back into the car, drove to a call box and rang Carla.

‘Hi, Carla, it’s done.’

‘You got them all.’

‘Every single one.’

‘Witnesses?’

‘Well, let’s just say there’s no one left to clean up.’

‘Great, Honey. Come over tonight. As it’s Valentine’s day, and you’ve been such a good boy, I have a nice little something for you.’

It was the way she emphasised the ‘little something.’ I grinned, as my hormones kicked in and visions of a long steamy night filled my head.

‘Give me an hour,’ I croaked.

Carla laughed. ‘You can have all night, baby.’

I put down the phone and hurried home. I needed to change my suit, get the smell of gunfire out of my nose.

I pulled off my jacket, took the card from my pocket and flipped it open. ‘Who loves ya baby,’ it read. I tossed it onto the table. It might come in useful later.

I ran a bath and thought about Carla. Sweet Carla, the best thing I’d ever seen on two legs. She only had to look at me to get me going. She had brains too, a broad didn’t get that far up the chain of command in Bugs Malone’s organisation without having brains. She was a tough cookie though, failure was punished hard. There were four or five guys wearing concrete under the new highway because they didn’t carry out her instructions to the letter.

Bugs wanted revenge for last year’s Valentine’s Day massacre, when most of his top people were butchered. It was down to Carla to make sure he got it.

I dried my hair on a towel and sprayed on some of the cologne that Mary gave me for Christmas. This was my big chance. I had proved myself as an asset, now I would have the chance to prove myself as a lover.

I stuffed Mary’s card into my pocket and hailed a cab to Carla’s place. She lived above one of the better speakeasies in the flash part of town. There was a lot of activity around the front of the building so I slipped round the back and climbed the iron staircase. The fire escape was open. I stopped on the top step when I heard voices.

‘You up for this?’ It was Carla.

‘Sure, baby, I’m ready.’

‘No mistakes, Greggo, take Mickey with you. Waste him, then drop him in the river. We need to clean up all the crap tonight.’

I cursed under my breath as I realised what Carla meant by ‘a little something.’ I took Mary’s card, tore it up and threw the pieces into the cold night, then pulled the pistol from my inside pocket and flicked off the safety.

I took a deep breath and stepped through the open door.

‘Who loves ya Baby,’ I roared.

Information about the author:

Tracy's Hot Mail Ebook, available now on Smashwords http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/34169
Kindle: http://amzn.to/hiSgDc

Peggy Larkins War Ebook, available now. Kindle http://amzn.to/eLVydS

Short stories available at Http://www.etherbooks.com via Iphone app.

Website: www.trevorbelshaw.com
Wordpress Blog: www.trevorbelshaw.com/blog
Twitter @tbelshaw
Facebook Trevor Belshaw http://www.facebook.com/trevor.belshaw

The artist:

Marie Fullerton is a retired lecturer, with eight grown up children. She started painting 21 years ago and is completely self-taught. She has sold many paintings but has only recently tried illustrating. You can see her artwork on her Facebookpage.  

Blog pages…  http://wordangell.wordpress.com/

                         http://mariesimaginings.blogspot.com/

Writer in Residence, Delicious for All LE 17 4EG

This first Writer in Residence event will be taking place Friday 1 July, at the Delicious for All Café, Lutterworth, LE17 4EG.
Gill James, aka Lian Childs, will be there, working on her writing but also free to:
Answer questions about her work
Discuss your work
Gather ideas for collaborative projects
Sell signed copies of her books
Enjoy what the café has to offer
Offer tips on getting published
Discuss the work of the Creative Café Project
Gill is also a lecturer in English and Creative Writing at the University of Salford. She also edits for Bridge House and The Red Telephone.
Be there or be square.
12.00 – 17.00
Look forward to seeing you!

The Girl in the Wood

Alix Parker

Hot chocolate with whipped cream

The cowslips are growing. They’re only shoots now but in a matter of moments they’ll be knee high then they’ll reach the waist and with a soaking they’ll be higher than a man.

It’s as if you can see them growing, pushing through the earth pulling up to the light that here, is green. I love this time in the woods. After months of cold monochrome the green comes thundering in and time shows what it can do. After the cowslips, the brambles and stingers quickly follow and soon the paths will be hidden. Deep inside the wood I breathe in the scent of bark and leaves and earth and watch the light dappling, mapping the breeze. Sometimes I think there is someone beside me but whenever I turn to look there is no one there.

As a child I was always looking for the gingerbread house hidden deep within the trees but I never found it. Nor did I see the wolf but now I know it was he who snuffled up the bits of bread I left to lead me home.

It’s now when time here slips and nothing matters and the deep cool under the trees calls me to dream and remember a time long ago when I was just like you.

It’s hard to see at first. After the bright lights of the train and then the streets, the park is a mass of darkness. She is laughing and puts her arm through mine as she keeps up a constant chatter. I’m not listening. I know that under the bridge and across the field the woods are waiting. She’s talking about Billy and how he’d said he’d liked me. When I say I don’t care she stops and I can see her eyes laughing at me. ‘What? Don’t you like him?’

‘He’s just a boy.’

‘Yeah, but…’ She leans in close and I feel her breath on my face, hot and sweet. ‘But he likes you.’ I shake my head, so what? I want to say, who cares? But she’s started to rate things like that. I can’t help glancing around us. I can’t see anyone just the dark shapes of bushes and trees silhouetted against the sky. The rain blurs and I feel the darkness of the woods.

A low murmur of voices reaches us through the hiss of the rain. ‘Over there!’ she says and her grip tightens as she pulls me closer to the trees. Shapes appear, bodies, hoods, legs, arms, and then I see the group of kids around a bench. I hold back.

‘Is it them?’ We can’t see their faces. I strain to hear a voice I recognise.



It stops raining. A low mist hangs above the grass. There are kids everywhere hanging out in groups in the dark. Red points of light glow, illuminating their faces. They look like devils. It’s weird. I’m cold and bored. She’s having a great time sitting on someone’s lap glugging blue liquid from a bottle. I sit a little way back. People talk to me but they’re talking crap and I can’t be bothered to listen. I don’t care what they think of me. Someone passes me a zoot. I shake my head. She takes it instead and inhales deeply. She makes a big play of blowing out the smoke and whoops with laughter as she falls back. The boy catches her and she passes it to me. ‘Go on,’ she says, ‘or are you scared?’

‘No.’ Even though I don’t want to I put it to my lips and suck in. The smoke burns. It makes me want to be sick but I won’t give her the satisfaction of showing it.

They are shrieking with laughter now, the people around me. I feel light headed and nauseous. I want to be on my own so I wander away from the group across the field. It’s beautiful out here. It reminds me of being little, walking home from the child minder in the dark, holding hands with Mum while she points out the moon and the stars. There are none tonight. It was a time when I believed in faeries. Mum said they lived in the woods but I should never go there alone, especially not at night. She said not all faeries are good. It used to make me shiver with fear and excitement and I’d grip her hand tighter and ask if we could walk closer to the trees. She always laughed and said no.

She’s not here tonight and so I go closer. The darkness is thick between the trees and I fancy that her stories are true and I think of the oak man caught within the trunk of the tree. If you look closely you can see his face. Tonight I wonder if he’s walking out, free at last.

As I stare into the trees I think I see lights dancing between the branches. I catch my breath, what are they? Fireflies? I thought they only existed in stories but I can see them right there with my own eyes. One comes out from the trees and almost lands on my outstretched hand. I try to grab it but it zooms away and I follow it.

I am in the middle of the woods when I realise I shouldn’t be here alone.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to walk away and not go back? I wonder that now. Black spots swarm in front of my eyes. The light ones have gone. I feel his weight. His hand crushes against my mouth and I realise that if I go back now I will have to face him. So instead I run.

By the bench my friend pulls away from the boy whose lap she’s sitting on. ‘Hey where’s Anna?’ she asks. Someone passes the bottle to her. ‘Ah!’ She smiles wickedly, ‘I know. Billy!’

‘What?’ Billy leans forward on the bench. She looks at him and turns back to the boy she’s been kissing. ‘Oh, not him then,’ she says. Billy blushes- glad that it’s dark and no one can see.

‘Does she like me?’

‘Yeah Billy,’ she laughs, ‘she likes you.’

Billy is pacing round the bench. ‘It’s okay!’

My friend rolls her eyes, ‘she must have gone home, leave her, she didn’t want to come anyway. She’ll be all right.’

When we were little we ran through these woods holding hands. We had wings on our backs and wands in our hands. Mum took a photograph. Backlit by the sun we looked like we were glowing. Where are the faeries now?



My phone flashes a message. I see its screen glow green and light up the leaves that surround it. A message. I think but I don’t reach for it. Another message flashes. Later my favourite tune plays out through the trees startling the mice and rats that scuttle through the brambles. It plays and plays but I can’t answer. I know it will be my mum and my heart aches. I want to go back but now it is too late.

They come through the trees. Creeping slowly stopping at every sound. I see that they are more than lights they are people. I think that if I move my hand they will vanish only my hand won’t move. They come closer and whisper strange things I don’t understand as they gather around me joining hands to make a ring and everything changes.

Somehow I change. I am like them, made of light. They take my hand and lead me into the dance. I see Hansel and Gretel. We eat sweets from the gingerbread house and laugh at the witch inside. I see a green man whose face is made from leaves and I think, so it’s true. I watch out for the wolf.

The acorns that fell that autumn have grown now. I lay here perfectly still hearing the plants sucking the moisture, the worms grinding through the soil. If I listen carefully I can hear the breeze in the grass and higher in the trees I hear the birds singing to the day. Sometimes I feel the warmth of the sun as it penetrates the leafy bower. Sometimes I hear the shouts and songs of children playing and I dream that I found my way.



Bio:

Alix has had several stories published and has worked in theatre and film. She also works under the pseudonym Fox E Parker with co writer Sue Eves.

www.foxeparker.com

Awakening

by Louise Hastings

Espresso

I meet him at the door and slowly walk in, my thoughts as complex and loud as music. The notes jangle to the speed of my spinning world as he ventures into me, bravely tearing at flesh that is made painful by love. Indigestible anger rips out of my sides, spreading green bile across the floor. My senses are quickening as the fingers of his mind start to undress me. His arms are at the embrace of my longing as he gives himself to me and leans into my future. He shows me how the darkness had rolled on top of the light; points out the stars that were burned by the sun.

I am afraid to touch him in case my hands move right through him. I am ashamed to meet his gaze, afraid to reveal the dreams that squirm through my brain like dark anti-matter hiding under lifted rocks. I am in turmoil, but this is the way to the past. In time it will dissolve, grow small and still as the surface of a pond. By remembering I am learning to forget.

There is something in him that intrigues me, something I don't yet understand. How he gives of himself so freely, yet expects nothing in return; how he holds onto joy during moments in time when the spark seems like it is dying; carrying me along on the cloud burst, away from the grey and mechanic, into the poetic and extraordinary. A place where the ice is melting, where the fire has raged through the forests, where the rivers flow on like electricity.

My spirit is gradually unfolding into being, knitted into the fabric of my hopes and and desires, glistening like dew drops in the morning air. I feel as though I could fly, rise above mountains, soar over jagged rocks. Finally I am shaking off the fear of living and turning it into love. My every day misery is no longer acceptable. I want to feel the icy blast of ocean waters on my skin, feel the unseen fingers brushing through my hair, feel your gaze warming my blood.

I am left exhausted by the flashing images that crowd around like ancient trees inside my head. He is breathing his wholeness into me and I am drinking deeply of his gentle soul. One day soon, I know I will stand at his door dripping with new memories, wearing a flimsy dress that's soaked through by the rain.

Bio

Louise is based in the beautiful county of Somerset, from where she gains much of her inspiration for her writing and poetry. She is interested in the inner workings of the human psyche, the human mind, body and soul. You can see more of her work a http://poeticdelusions.com/

Smiles and Heartaches

by Louise Charles
Double Espresso

His smile made my heart ache. The first time he asked me out for a date. His head lowered, kicking at a spot on the ground. He looked up, his eyes fixed on mine and I was his. He took me ice-skating. I was hopeless, like a new born fawn with legs that wouldn’t hold me, too nervous to ask for help. He caught me and captured my heart.

He brings me tea, steaming hot.

‘Wait a while,’ he says. ‘It will soon cool down. What would you like for breakfast?’

I don’t care. What’s the point in eating?

He blows on the cup, tiny droplets of tea spatter my face.

‘Sip,’ he says. I keep my lips shut. He places a tender kiss on my neck.

I can hear him humming in the bathroom, tap running, lathering his face and the rasp of the blade as it crosses his skin. I once went everywhere he did. I urge myself to move, to lift myself up. I would give anything to go to him, wrap my arms around his waist, lay my cheek against his warm shoulder and breathe him in. Minty toothpaste and sandalwood smells. Fresh. Clean.

He is dressed. He wears blue jeans, a tangerine coloured shirt and a cream, cotton jacket. A passionflower tucked in the buttonhole.

He’s still humming.

‘My Heart Will Always Go On.’ Our wedding song – words that have represented our love until now.

My gaze is drawn to the deep plum satin that falls from his hands like a soft curtain.

‘Do you know what day it is?’

I blink. Yes, I remember.

‘It’s our anniversary.’ He smiles. My heart aches.

Ten years. Just me, him, and two strangers for witnesses. I wore a simple satin shift the colour of aubergine. The one that he has now placed across the bed.

It won’t fit.

‘It will fit you perfectly.’ He slips my nightgown off and I yearn for his touch, but we don’t - not anymore. The soft, cool material caresses my skin as he lifts me up for a fleeting moment so that the skirt falls and wraps around my ankles.

I wore no shoes.

‘You were barefoot. And beautiful.’

He moves a strand of hair from my face and a single tear falls onto my cheek.

‘Me. You. Us.’ He holds up three fingers, like the three cream candles we lit to symbolise our union. They had fluttered with life, with hope, with our future.

But that’s all gone. Extinguished like a flame.

He grabs my shoulders as he lowers me back against the pillows. ‘Don’t go.’
I have to. There is nothing here for me now. Nothing for you now. No ‘us’ now.

‘We can see this thing through,’ he pleads, ‘together we can beat this.’

No, we cannot. I cannot. Trapped in a body that no longer works. I have to let you go. You don’t know how much I want to stay. How much I long to tell you. How much I long for you to hear me. But you can’t. I’m shouting but you can’t hear me.

He lies by my side, gathering me towards him and holds my gaze.

I close my eyes, listen to my heartbeat, and feel his breath on my lips.

One. Two. Three. Stop.

No more smiles. No more heartache.





About Louise:

Louise Charles (aka Jo Lamb)

Email: louisecharlesauthor@gmail.com

Website: Louise Charles (www.louisecharles.com)



Check out my online Writing Community at Writers Abroad

Old Friends

by Sarah Evans

Cappuccino

Russell arrived a little early, wanting to be there first, wanting to see her before she saw him.
He drank his coffee too quickly, feeling the caffeine humming through him, wondering why he was doing this and why the thought of seeing her could still – after all these years – fill him with joyful trepidation.
The time for their meeting came and went. The minutes by which she was late piled up one by one, mingling with the jitter of caffeine till he felt that he’d explode. She was always late. That hadn’t changed. Why the hell had he bothered being early? Ten more minutes, he thought, ten more minutes and he’d leave.
And then…
The door was opening, the old-fashioned bell tinkling; there was a blast of cold air, and a woman bursting through, her bright scarf flapping, her hands busy with plastic bags, eyes darting but not, it seemed, seeing.
Eleanor!
Middle-aged now. They both were. But she was wearing well, still tight and lean and conveying, even in the briefest of glimpses, a sparking energy. His heart was beating fast and he lingered for an hour-long-second, wishing he could simply observe, that he had time to absorb the shock and to let his pulse settle.
Her eyes alighted on him and his legs pushed his body to standing. Her smile stretched broadly. ‘Russell!’ she said, her voice unchanged after twenty years.
‘Eleanor!’
He manoeuvred out from behind his table, his shin banging against a chair and setting him tripping. They met midway, then both hesitated, before ducking towards each other for a social embrace, heads bobbing side to side, kissing the air which was fragranced with her still familiar scent.
‘It’s good to see you,’ he said, momentarily dizzied by the brush of her silk-soft skin.
‘Good to see you too.’ She drew back, looking at him openly, appraising, and he wished his hair not so thin, his middle not quite so thick.
‘You haven’t changed,’ he said, and her laughter was bright and vivid as she said: ‘What nonsense! We’ve both changed.’ Her mouth stretched to a lop-sided smile. ‘Both older. Wiser.’ Then she laughed. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Do we need to be wiser?’
‘We weren’t back then.’
‘I don’t know…’ And that was it, he felt he didn’t know, anything, other than that it was good to see her and that he couldn’t remember, not precisely, why they had split up.
‘Coffee?’ he offered.
‘Let me. Same again?’ She gestured his foam-lined cappuccino cup, and he said yes, meaning no, but it was too complicated to think of something different or to insist that he could buy them.
He sat down, grateful for the firm support of the wooden chair, and for the opportunity to watch her as she queued, her hand pushing back her thick, auburn hair and her eyes twitching round, her feet tapping. Watching her was tiring. Was that why they hadn’t endured; he’d been worn out by her?
‘Here!’ she exclaimed in triumph as she presented him with an extra large cappuccino, the abundant creamy froth feeling indulgent set alongside her espresso.
‘How are you?’ she asked.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘I stuck with law. Was made a partner three years ago. I live in Hertfordshire. I’m mid-divorce.’ He reeled out the basic parameters of his life, wishing they were more interesting, aware that none of this answered her question.
‘And happy?’ she asked.
‘What does that mean?’
She laughed. ‘What indeed?’
He had known to define himself as happy once; he remembered the certainty, the waking up beside her and saying I love you and that feeling – I’ve never been so happy – and the need to express it in words; and her laughing and telling him that all that told her was that he had been miserable before. But wasn’t that reasonable? Happiness wasn’t an absolute, it was relative, it was more or less, it grew or died.
‘You?’ he asked. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m good. No longer a lawyer.’ She grimaced. ‘But then you know that, you tracked down my website. Doing my own thing. Sort of making it as an artist, which is to say I make enough from commercial stuff to get me by and still have time to experiment with what I really want to do.’
‘You found your way then?’
And now he was remembering this point of difference between them. It was never that he loved his job, never that he felt that it defined or fulfilled him. But there was satisfaction in knowing that he did it well, gratification in the way his pay-checks swelled year by year and in the ability to buy the house and car and lifestyle.
‘My way? I guess. I found a way to be. There are still compromises, but not as fundamental as the nine-to-five grind. I’m OK I guess.’
‘And married? Partnered?’
‘No.’ She looked at him very directly. ‘I’m not good at the relationship thing. But then you know that.’
‘Do I?’
‘Don’t you?’ And he was remembering the pointless arguments and her inability to find a middle way until the moment when she was staring down at the floor and her voice was low and serious: maybe I’m just not cut out for this.
‘And you’re happy?’ he asked.
‘I guess. I mean as happy as anyone. I’m not unhappy and that seems as much as it’s reasonable to hope for.’
Somehow his coffee had been drunk and inside he was buzzing up like a nest of wasps.
‘Why did we split up?’ he asked.
‘Why were we together?’
‘We loved each other.’ Anger surged, surely she remembered that?
‘Did we?’
‘Didn’t we?’
She paused; her large green eyes stared ahead. It couldn’t be that difficult to remember. ‘It was very intense,’ she said. ‘All that wanting each other. It was very…consuming.’
‘And isn’t that love?’
‘Isn’t that just lust?’
‘It was more than that.’
‘It felt like more than that. But then it doesn’t it?’
Anger pulsed, along with resentment and regret, emotions all frothing up, refusing to settle, refusing to order themselves into any kind of logic.
‘It was more than that,’ he repeated very quietly.
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘It didn’t last though.’
‘It could have done.’
‘If it could have done, it would have.’
‘You left.’
‘You didn’t follow.’
‘You sodded off to the back of beyond. Finding yourself.’
‘You could have come too.’
‘I already knew who I was.’ The same grey-suited man who sat here now, who saw nothing wrong with nine-to-five routines and slowly making his way up a career ladder in a job he was good at, if not inspired by.
‘Did you?’
The question rested pointlessly between them. ‘Oh gosh,’ she said, raising her arm in a slightly exaggerated gesture, ‘is that the time?’
‘I expect so. Unless your watch is faulty.’
She looked at him then laughed. ‘I remember you making me laugh.’
…and Sunday mornings wrapped in sweat drenched sheets and the completeness of contentment, did she remember that too?
‘Why,’ she asked, ‘did you get in touch?’
‘I don’t know. Two old friends.’
‘Lovers. It was never really about friendship was it?’
‘Doesn’t lover imply friendship too?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘You must have had other lovers since,’ he blurted, angry and jealous. ‘Weren’t they friends?’
‘Yes. I must have.’ Again, that wide-eyed gaze, seeking answers in the distance. ‘And no, not really. I don’t really do friends,’ she said.
‘Can’t we be?’
‘Friends? I don’t think so. I mean do you? I mean really.’
‘Lovers then.’
Her laugh was deep and vivid. ‘It’s not that easy.’
‘It was back then.’
‘We were young then.’
‘We’re not exactly old.’
‘Too old. I really ought to go.’
Their eyes met, a lingering moment in which he failed to understand. Anything.
‘It was nice seeing you,’ she said and she leant in towards him, her lips against his cheek soft and warm.
Then she was gone. Just as she’d left him before.

Bio: Sarah Evans has had dozens of stories published in magazines and competition anthologies, including: the Bridport Prize, Momaya Press, Earlyworks Press, Tonto Press and Writers’ Forum. She lives in Welwyn Garden City with her husband.

Dinner for Two

by Trevor Belshaw

Skinny Latte



Has that clock stopped? No, my watch says the same time. Stop looking every thirty seconds will you?
Maisie Connolly, this is your bloody fault. If it all goes wrong I'll never speak to you again.
Right, check the food, Sarah, it's fine, you know it's fine, you only checked it two minutes ago. Wine, where's the bloo...okay, it's on the table, should be room temperature by now. Maisie Connolly, if this wine isn't as good as you promised you'll be wearing it tomorrow. At twelve quid a bloody bottle it ought to be dynamite.
Check the mirror, sigh, I'm sure those lines round your mouth are getting deeper; you'll need cement to fill them in if they get any worse.
What's that? Was that a car? Dare you peek through the window? You don't want him to catch you looking. Count to thirty and listen for the car door closing... thirty, no, can't have been him.
I hope he likes classical music, those free CDs from the Sunday papers were worth keeping after all. Classical is a bit more sophisticated than Simply Red.
Hang on, daft girl; Simply Red is fine for that close up chat on the sofa later in the evening. Damn, where the hell is it?
Had to be in the bloody car didn't it? Right then, that's Mozart for dinner and Mick Hucknall for afters, lovely.
Twenty five past eight. This has to be the longest night of my life, are we stuck in a time warp or something?
Hope he likes the dress; check the mirror, not too much cleavage, not too short. Come on Sarah, you've been through all this; it took you two hours to choose it. What if he comes in a suit though? Are you formal enough? No time to do anything about it now. I bet he wears a sodding suit.
Let's hope it goes better than last time, eh? Note to self, if you spill the red wine over his trousers, don't dab at his crotch with a napkin.
Why did you do that? You should have left it at a horrified, ‘sorry.' It was his house; he could quite easily have nipped through to change. He ended up being more embarrassed than you did, and why did you keep bringing it up throughout the meal? Oh my God, then you go and lose a contact lens in the Beef Stroganoff.
Wonder if he'll want to stay over?
SARAH! Stop that, you slut...It has been a while though...
Eight twenty eight. Stop looking at the bloody clock!
He's going to be late isn't he? What if he doesn't come at all? No one could blame him after our last date.
Two glasses of wine Sarah and that's the limit. You don't want to get the giggles like last time. For pity's sake, he only asked you how you liked it, and he was talking about coffee.
Bit of a shame he still he has that ex wife hanging around in the background. She shouldn't really be calling him half way through a dinner date. He was very kind to her though, not many exes would offer to give her and her new bloke a lift to the airport at the weekend.
I hope Malcolm doesn't ring me half way through this meal. He'll get short bloody shrift the lying cheating...Maisie Connolly; you had better not ring to see how it's going either.
Eight thirty one. He's late; please don't say he's going to stand me up.
How the hell did you get yourself into this anyway? You know you can't cook.
The dinner!
Phew, lucky girl. Another couple of minutes and you'd have been serving crispy chicken.
Phone! It's him isn't it? Calling it off, he's had a breakdown. His ex has come back to stay. He's just found out he's gay!
Bloody cold callers. No, I don't want to change my bloody phone provider you bloody numbskulls.
You need a drink. Just a small one Sarah, remember the giggles.
Candles? You forgot the bloody candles. This is going to be a real cosy meal with a sixty watt light bulb hanging over the dinner table, isn't it?
Eight thirty three, where the hell is he? If he stands me up I'll...hang on, whose is that car in the drive? Shit! He's here. Damn that bloody doorbell, why didn't you change those batteries when you noticed it wasn't working?
Shit, shit and triple shit.
Right, breath in, deep breaths, calm yourself. Think Feng Shui or is it Buddhist, OM OM. Check mirror, you'll have to do. Don't smile too quickly... act as though this is a weekly occurrence, no, don't do that he'll think you're easy.
Shit, he's wearing a suit.
Oh he is looking gorgeous though, offer your cheek you slut, not your mouth.
‘Hello, Mike. Are you early?'

To find out more about Trevor Belshaw:

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