the writer is a lonely hunter

Please find The Notebook below, my entry to FLASH MOB 2013. This is a blog competition celebrating International Flash Fiction Day on 22 June. To join the carnival all you have to do is post a previously unpublished piece of flash fiction (300 words or fewer, not including title) to your own blog before the 10 June. Not long to go, so you’d better get cracking! Find more details here.

           The Notebook

            ‘You’ll have another one?’ Paul drained his pint glass and nodded towards Jane’s tumbler containing only water from the melted ice. ‘One more G and T won’t do you any harm.’

            ‘I guess not,’ she said.

            While he was at the bar, Jane took the pad from her handbag and made a note of jobs for the weekend: woollen wash, change sheets, dismantle wardrobe, take to dump.

            ‘What’s that you’re doing?’ He ground the base of her glass against the table and leaned over, trying to read the words.

            ‘It’s to stop me forgetting the one or two things I need to do.’

            ‘You and your lists.’

            ‘Indeed,’ Jane closed the cover.

            Paul weaved his fingers through his fringe and Jane’s spine contracted with a stab of irritation. He’d always worn that ring on his right hand, as if he never was sure about being married. A shaft of light through the stained glass made a kaleidoscope of colours on the carpet, a torch through the fug.

            ‘Of course, if you really had your priorities right, my name would be at the top of your list,’ said Paul.‘That would show you believe in me.’

            ‘I do Paul,’ sighed Jane. ‘You’ll get a job soon enough.’

            ‘I worked 20 years for that firm and what do I get for my loyalty?’

            ‘They made the whole department redundant. It’s not as if they were picking on you.’

            ‘Less of the lecture, Jane.’

            By ten o’clock Paul’s shoulders were hunched and he jabbed Jane’s notebook. ‘Come on then. Put me at the top of the list.’

            Jane took the ballpoint and scrawled across the page: I be-leave-in you, Paul.

            She passed the paper over and he squinted, trying to decipher her writing.

            ‘That’ll do,’ he said.