Well, here I go, straight into my first piece of Flash Fiction. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you do, I could be tempted to write more. Though I still think a short story should last longer that a pot of coffee!
Just a Thought?
His eyes had been closed a while. Opening them slowly, he looked up. Immediately, he caught her gaze again.
She smiled. Her eyes shone with a brightness that sliced through the overcast day. They cut into his drab existence, as if a razor had been drawn quickly over the skin of a ripe peach – sweetness oozed; a perfume of palpable intensity flowed over his soul.
Who was she?
The train thundered down the track, continuing its inexorable progress. In one hour, he thought, they’d reach the end of the line... it would be over.
He smiled a short, sheepish acknowledgement, not wanting to give the slightest impression that he was consumed by her presence.
Her smile… he’d never seen such a lovely smile. He had, of course! But, right now, at this instant, he held no memory of such another. It was the only thing he could focus upon – the only thing that seemed to him to be real.
She’d entered from behind him, walking the length of the near-empty carriage, before turning. She retraced her steps in his direction and, on catching his upward glance, she took the seat opposite his. Now she sat across the small table that separated them, smiling – as if she knew something.
Earlier, as she first took her seat, he’d averted his eyes – closed them. He’d allowed the rhythmic swaying of the carriage to draw him into its succour. As the heavy engine drew forward its tail of wanton, rumbling followers, the rhythm drew him into temporary sleep – the vision of the women’s face etched into his mind.
But now, though, he was awake. Awake to her attention, awake to the caress of that smile.
The women moved her arm with graceful ease, sliding her hand deftly within her purse, withdrawing her mobile phone.
He looked on, trying hard not to stare at her perfectly painted finger nails as she tapped out a text. He wished, not for the first time since she’d joined the train – for Christ’s sake, he’d even dreamed it – he wished he could summon the courage to speak. He wished he could ask her for the number of her telephone, so that he could, maybe, call her… if she didn’t mind?
But he looked on. Her beauty, the occasion, whatever… they conspired against him. He was struck dumb. “Please…,” he wanted to cry out.
The scenario played over in his mind as the train pulled into the station, the journey over.
He sat, transfixed, as the girl with the smile rose. She collected her purse and, stopping a moment, removed a card from a discreet silver case. She placed the card carefully before him, twisting her fingers until it faced him. She paused, holding his gaze once again in hers, and smiled a last smile.
“You asked for my number,” she said, and left the carriage.
The spell broken, he glanced down at the card: DR ALICE CRAVEN, MENTALIST, and the strap line: UNLOCK YOUR INNERMOST THOUGHTS.