The two regulars, who had been drinking longer than anyone, were becoming troublesome. They started arguing with one another then butted into a conversation the people at the next table were having. George was obliged to tell them to pipe down or he would have to ask them to leave. They turned their attention on him and made a few weak jokes at his expense. He ignored it. He was used to being insulted by customers on a regular basis and it was all part of the job. After a short but heated discussion, he agreed they could have a final drink each, so long as they didn’t disturb the other customers.
So welcome earlier in the afternoon, the breeze was growing chilly. Tables began to empty and it wasn’t too long before there were only the four in the corner and the two regulars still there. All six had slowed down and the levels of liquid in glasses remained steady. George totted up the takings for the afternoon and realised that it was the best session he’d ever had. He was well up on his previous best and knew he would be getting a bonus for his efforts. Happiness flowed through him as he anticipated the evening ahead. With a bonus he would be able to stay out longer than he normally did and maybe even treat himself to a woman. He grew warm in anticipation of this rare treat.
In the corner, the female who had been angry earlier looked ready to slide under the table so the other three finished their drinks and waved to George for the bill. He printed it off from the computer and took it over on a small saucer. He was mightily relieved when they paid up without fuss and started to gather themselves together to leave. Eventually, they were all on their feet and, if a little unsteadily, they managed to leave without knocking over any tables or chairs. George took the signed tab back to the bar and got a tray to clear the table.
The regulars stared, glassy-eyed, as he gathered up the remaining cans and glasses. As he headed back to the bar, one of them called him over.
‘They got well-oiled, didn’t they?’ he said.
His companion, pretty well gone by then, nodded in agreement. They then got up from the table with much groaning and stretching of stiff limbs, shoved a card at George to pay for their drinks and eventually shambled off.
George sighed, his mind on the evening ahead as he took a cloth to the table in the corner. He was just about to wipe it down when he noticed a small, wet spot exactly where the drunken female had been sitting. Glancing around to make sure there was no one to see him, he dipped his forefinger into the wetness and rubbed it against his thumb, noticing the oily smoothness. He looked around again before holding his fingers to his face. He kissed them then inhaled deeply, before wiping them on his waiter’s apron in a gesture of disgust.
‘Bloody robots,’ he said, rubbing hard at the oily stain on the seat.
*
UK native Elizabeth Jasper spends much of the year in a remote mountain village in Granada Province, Andalucia, Spain with her husband. She has penned several novels, including Bed of Knives, Lying in Wait and the YA Meggie series.
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5085622.Elizabeth_Jasper
*
Just One Kiss
Suzie O’Connell
Tears prickled Alicia’s eyes as she stared at the image in the picture frame. In it, a young couple stood at the end of an old ferry dock with a blustery wind whipping at their hair and clothing and the lights of Seattle twinkling dimly in the distance. They stood with bodies locked together, lips curved in anticipation of the kiss to come, and eyes only for each other. The man was tall and fit with sandy blond hair, warm blue eyes, and a sexy dusting of stubble. The woman, shorter by several inches with long, dark chestnut hair and laughing green eyes, was beautiful, but it wasn’t either’s physical attributes that made the photo so gorgeous. It was the love radiating from them both.
How can a love like that fade so quickly? she wondered, hastily wiping away the single tear that slipped down her cheek.
Sighing, she tucked the photograph in the box alongside the dozen others that chronicled her six-year marriage, folded the flaps down, taped them closed, and labeled the box, “Memories.” She stood and carried it out to her car. With each step, it felt heavier in her arms, like it didn’t want this to be the end of her life with Tucker. Squaring her shoulders, she lengthened her stride and tucked the box safely in her trunk before returning to the house. There was little left to do now but shampoo the carpets and vacuum one last time.
The house, a rental sitting atop the bluff and overlooking the Indianola dock, Bainbridge Island, Agate Pass, and Seattle, was small but cozy and had been her home since Tucker had proposed seven years ago. It had been his for longer, but they had decided they’d both give it up because there were just too many memories here. All the furniture had been moved out, and all the pictures had been taken down and boxed up, and even though the house looked like an empty shell, it still felt like home.
The walls were a pale blue-gray adorned with pristine white trim and accented by the dark-stained, rough-hewn ceiling beams. The color scheme should have made the place feel cold and uninviting but the beige carpets and golden oak floors added plenty of warmth, as had the laughter that had once danced through the rooms. Her cheeks warmed as she recalled other, hotter encounters with her husband that had been sparked by something as simple as a wink.