Lunchtime Rush

Here’s a rough early draft of a piece of flash fiction i.e. short fiction. Bear with me.

Joe is pleased that his usual table is free. He’s later than normal. He bumped into a neighbour of his at the chemist and they had a grand chat. Today is a good day. He’s glad to be out of the rain. A smell of damp rises up from coats hanging on the backs of chairs.

‘You might have to share today, Joe,’ the waitress says to him as she wipes the table.

‘That’s grand,’ says Joe. ‘Be nice to have a bit of company. You never know, I might be sitting next to some fine fillies.’

An aroma of salt and fat wafts past Joe’s nostrils. The all-day breakfast. That’s what he gets. Washed down with strong tea. He doesn’t even have to order it.

Photo by Brian Fegter on Unsplash

Photo Description: An old man sits on his own at a big grey table in a park. He is to the left of the picture and wears a black hat with a wide brim.

As his meal arrives, so do two young women, deep in conversation as they walk in. Joe hears the tip-tap of shoes growing louder as they approach the table.

‘You won’t mind sharing, will you, ladies?’ says the waitress.

The two women shrug. They don’t look at the waitress; they carry on talking. Their coats fall open, one pink, one fawn coloured. Both made with soft material, belted around the waist.

‘We’d better take off the old cotas,’ says one.

‘Or we won’t feel the benefit of it when we go out,’ they chime, with a cackle.

Their handbags plop down beside their chairs. The handbags bulge out into the narrow corridor between tables, but they don’t notice.

‘That’s a gorgeous guna you have on you,’ says the one with the blonde hair.

Joe feels the swish of her hair as she settles herself in her seat.

‘Thanks, Penney’s.’

They both laugh

‘Actually the closing sale at Carlottas, would you believe.’

Little curl of triumph on the lips of the dark-haired woman.

‘Bit dressy for school, but…’

‘You’d need to cheer yourself up when you’re faced with second years for double maths,’ they chortle.

The waitress comes with Joe’s tea.

‘What would you like?’ she says to the women.

The menus lie on the table, unopened.

‘Oh, sorry,’ say the women.

But they don’t pick up the menus.

‘We’ll have the soup,’ says the dark-haired one, in a voice used to keep unruly classes in line.

‘Anything to drink.’

‘Just water, thanks,’ says the blonde woman.

When she’s just out of earshot, the blonde one says, ‘We should be safe enough with soup.’

Joe’s breakfast fills his belly, and the women’s conversation fills the cracks inside him. Their chat is peppered with Irish words, words that take him back to a fireside, a soft voice in his ear. Their soup is almost untouched.

Joe hears a gap in their words and inserts himself into it.

‘Isn’t it great ye’ve the Irish,’ he says to them.

‘Sorry?’ says the blonde one, turning towards him. Suddenly seeing him.

‘I was just saying, you know, the Irish. Teachers are great for the Irish.’

‘Was I talking to you?’

A whip crack of words. Joe feels them churn, along with rashers and black pudding.

‘Eh, well, no, sorry. It’s just I love the Irish, you see.’

‘So anyway,’ says the dark-haired one. ‘I told him he needn’t think…

Joe doesn’t hear the rest. He’s stumbling away from the table, narrowly avoiding the blonde teacher’s orange handbag as he goes.

This piece was inspired by a caller to Liveline, who was sharing a table with two women and got short shrift from them when he tried to join in their conversation.

Quick glossary of Irish words: cota – coat, guna – dress.