Short Story 2010-01-22

Gambit


The girl in the park was clearly upset. I wanted to go over there and ask what was wrong. I realised two problems – possibly more.
Firstly I was a stranger and maybe a stranger talking to her was the last thing she wanted.
Secondly she was gorgeous. Her hair was a little wild around her and she wore quirky hippy-ish clothing. I stopped myself because I knew that had she been fatter or older or had I had a girlfriend, I would have walked by. So I asked myself whether I should go up to her.
Could I go over their? It seemed wrong when the thought of a date was so high in my mind. Could I start a casual conversation?
How would I do this? Cheesy lines came to the front of my mind – none would do and by this point my motives were not exactly honourable.
It was worth a try. I was walking that way anyway. As I got closer I saw she was clutching her mobile.
“Bastard,” she said.
I found myself feeling animosity toward the unknown message-sender. Next to her was a book I recognised. It was a way into the the conversation.
“Being a bastard is almost his job by now.”
“What,” she said rubbing her eyes.
I pointed to the book.
“Not that,” she said, “my boyfriend. He dumped me in a text.”
“Bastard,” I said.
She smiled gingerly, “I'm Sally.”
“Lee,” I said.

Short Story

Healing Wounds

Denise yawned and checked her watch as the taxi pulled away from the rank. It was 14:02, local time, but 9:02 back home.
“Good flight,” the driver asked.
“I would have preferred to fly myself.”
“Yourself?”
“I'm an air force Captain.”
“Can't place you accent,” the driver said, “Canadian?”
“Well done,” she smiled.
The driver smiled, “Never been good with accents, “heard somewhere it's best to assume Canadian.”
“Never given much thought to it really.”
“I'm Welsh,” the driver said, “Know all about national identity.”
“It's important. And I know I'm in Wales now.”
“Mostly only comes up during sporting events.
“Only ever played hokey myself,” Denise said, “helps to know a martial art for that.”
“Thought that was just for jokes.”
“Not the way I play.”
The driver drummed his fingers on the searing wheel waiting for the lights, “what brings you to this green and pleasant land?”
“Wasn't that England?”
“That's what they want you to think.”
“Seeing my brother,” she said, “I crashed my helicopter recently – life flashed before by eyes – wanted to heal the other type of wound.”
“I saw that on the news. Your a hero.”
“I crashed the damn thing.”
“You got it down safely.”
“True,” she yawned again, “but I just did what any pilot would've done.”