Bad Timing

bad timing

For eighteen months Derek had attempted to cajole a smile out of stone cold Claire. He’d been counting. He’d tried small talk. Will the carpark ever reopen? Will the leaky roof ever get fixed, or must customers forever dodge traffic cones with their squeaky trolleys? And whatever happened to the deli counter?

Derek eyed the row of checkouts and, out of habit, checked his broken watch. He didn’t even know why he put the stupid thing on every morning. He glanced left and right again, as if his choice wasn’t already made, and shifted quietly into Claire’s line. It wasn’t the shortest queue, but Claire was efficient. Her line would move faster. At least it would with the collection of sturdy pensioners in line. Sturdy meant no fussing. Pensioners meant none of that Challenge 25 nonsense.

A tomatoey blush crept up Derek’s cheeks as he remembered how strangely Claire had looked at him when he’d mentioned how the customers attempting to buy alcohol just kept getting younger and younger. He knew he looked younger than twenty eight, and he’d never tried to buy alcohol from Claire before. He wondered if she’d ID him. But more than that, he wondered if she’d ever smile at him. He couldn’t even figure out why he wanted to see her smile. Derek didn’t fancy Claire. That would be absurd.

Claire glanced along the line. He was here again, the one who wittered endlessly about all sorts of nonsense. Beautiful nonsense. Tempting her with his youthful blushes. God, he was gorgeous, his dark head bobbing above a foamy sea of white and grey. Why must he always get in her line, reminding her of days lost to the cruel tick of time? She was young and beautiful once. Full of laughter. Laughter, she thought, with a mental harrumph. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d smiled.

Derek kicked his basket forward, the polished floor providing little friction, and popped a mint into his mouth. He had tried everything, even jokes. Jokes about horses walking into bars. Jokes about jaywalking chickens. Unfaithful cartoon characters. Jungle-dwelling kitchen appliances. Fruity marsupials. The only thing worse than Derek’s jokes were his puns. He shouldn’t be allowed out in public.

Stone cold Claire with her ice cold glare, he thought, as their eyes met across the loaded conveyor belt. No wonder she always looked at him funny. She could probably tell he was making up rude rhymes about her in his head. He blushed again and checked his useless watch, just for something to do.

“Did you remember your loyalty card today?” said Claire, lifting the checkout divider and sliding it into its rack. Good god, woman, you’re not his bloody mother. Might as well be. Oh god, he’s blushing again.

Derek fished the card out of his wallet. “And I have some coupons.” He laid them out in a curve in front of her. Like a rainbow, he thought.

Like a smile, she thought. BEEP!

“What are these like?” she said. “I’ve been meaning to give them a try.” She looked at the packet in her hands. Fishfingers. She was asking him what fishfingers were like. Generic brand fishfingers.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Answer, you idiot!

“They’re alright, but I don’t think you’d like them.” BEEP! “They’re cheap and bland.” BEEP!

“Ah, they aren’t worthy of me. Is that what you’re saying?”

Was that a smile? Did I miss it?

“Absolutely,” he said, determined to make her smile reappear. “I’m uncultured. I’ll eat anything. But a fine lady, such as yourself, deserves only the finest foods.” BEEP!

She chuckled, a smile lingering on her face, lighting her eyes. Derek stood, holding his breath, as if releasing it would cause time to tick on, taking Claire’s smile with it.

“If I was twenty years younger,” she said, with a wink. What the hell did I just do? Did I really just wink at someone half my age?

Derek smiled, then blushed. How young does she think I am? Fifteen? She can only be ten years older than me, if that. God, she has a lovely smile.

“That will be twelve eighty four please,” said Claire.

Derek fumbled with his wallet, his fingers suddenly too fat to pull out a twenty pound note.

With just a smile to sustain him until his next visit to Claire’s line, Derek headed along the high street to get his watch repaired. The queue was long and he cursed his bad timing. Should’ve got here sooner, he thought, thinking of Claire. Twenty years sooner.


Inspired not by Derek, but by Clive. Cheers dude.

word count 760. A little long for flash.

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Dog’s Dinner

The rain spattered softly onto the stacks of bin bags outside the old terraced house. The summer downpour had driven away the flies and a lone spider clung to the underside of the windowsill as stubbornly as the flaking red paint. Cars sped by, spitting at the stray mongrel drinking from the gutter. The street lamp glowed orange against the darkening blue sky, its reflection bouncing across the wet pot-holed tarmac, like a pebble skipping across a pond, before settling on the roof of a battered Ford. The house itself was silent.

Inside, a lone man slouched, his sagging face illuminated now and again by the muted, flickering television. His peaceful morning in the shed had been ruined by an afternoon that brought him nothing but stress. First came a gas bill which he knew was twelve pounds too dear. Then he spotted last night’s dirty teacups sitting in the sink. He took his frustration out on the lawn. His mood much improved, he tramped back inside, careful to deposit his grassy gardening boots on the doormat. Newspaper stepping stones led the way to the kitchen, where the teacups had been joined by a glass and a plate. He ground his teeth. Would it really kill her to clean up after herself? He could hear her, on the phone, tittering away without a care in the world. He leaned forwards against the worktop, his hands gripping the edge. Sugar! She had spilled sugar and not cleaned up. Did she want an ant invasion? The sugar stuck to his fingers, coarse and gritty. He couldn’t stand the feel of it. He scrubbed at his hands, rinsing off the last of it under the tap.

The confrontation hadn’t gone well but it was history now. Peace reigned at last. After a thorough clean of the kitchen and a quick shower, he settled down in his armchair for his favourite programme. Somewhere between Gardener’s World and John Betjeman’s Metro-Land, his aching muscles had relaxed, his thoughts had stilled and he had drifted into sleep to the sound of the rain. He didn’t hear the hungry mongrel tearing at the bin bags outside, nor see its wagging tail as it dashed away satisfied, a woman’s arm clamped tightly in its jaw.

(377 words)

Jack

Jack enjoyed the quiet. For years he had sat, silent and immobile, praying there would be no interruption to his solitude. Of course, he knew the day would come, it always did. Sometimes it would be years between disturbances, other times, merely months. But when it came, it did not stop. Every day there would be noise. So much noise. The television, with its constant droning and buzzing, was a new sound for Jack, even muffled as it was by the walls of his hiding place.

He crouched, made himself as small as he could, hoping with all his soul that they wouldn’t find him. That they wouldn’t pull him about, throw him around or shake him. He was scared. It was so frightening outside, he had always felt it. On those occasions when he had been forced to go out, he had felt their hatred, sensed their violence. The ones with the big faces and dribbling mouths did not seem to hate. If anything, they seemed to have no control over themselves at all. They laughed and squeaked and shrieked. They shook Jack about, threw him across the room, tried to bite him and smacked him hard on his head. The abuse was intolerable. But the small-faced ones, with the blurry features, they held within them such hatred for Jack that he feared even worse abuse at their hands. Yet they had never hurt him physically. Perhaps they were scared too. They watched the big-faced ones constantly, didn’t let them out of their sight. Thinking about those times made Jack feel helpless.

Jack had stayed silent. For years he had endured the pain dished out by the grasping hands of the big-faced ones, but by the time he felt brave enough to say something, to do something about it, he would be left alone. He wouldn’t hear a thing and the noise would disappear. Until next time.

He could sense it getting closer. His hiding place had already been moved and the noises, though tolerable still, were getting louder. He knew that soon he would hear that chilling sound, the grinding of cogs, the metallic tinkling that would turn frantic, making his stomach lurch with fear and forcing the coils beneath him to propel him upwards into those big faces and grasping hands. Jack prepared himself. He checked his mouth still moved, that his teeth were still sharp. He exercised his jaw, his bite. Then it came, the eerie tinkling sound. Jack crouched, ready to be released from his box.

(422 words)