In With A Shot

IN WITH A SHOT

We’ve all rolled up wearing the same outfit: a tight-fitting yellow number that makes us look rotund. Our hairstyles match too. I think the hairdresser called it The Extreme Perm. I look around. No thinking outside the box. How humiliating. Mind you, we’re doing our best, smiling gamely as we mill about, hoping to get picked up.

Finally, he singles me out. I feel his hands on me, caressing me, toying with me. I turn round and look up. He’s tall. He looks down at me and touches my hair. I think perhaps I’m in with a shot. He’s holding me tight, but then suddenly he turns away. I’ve been dropped, discarded, tossed aside. They’re so rude these men. We’re treated in such a backhanded way. I wish they’d stop taking advantage of us.

When I was fifteen, love was the only thing on my mind. Now I’m thirty, all I can think of is avoiding a break-up. But I’m old enough to know what the score is. I probably shouldn’t fault them. That’s how relationships are. Start complaining and I’d just be courting disaster.

Afternoon stretches into early evening. The shadows lengthen. I end up over near the drinks. Robinson’s at the bar but the service is terrible. Then when I’ve had just about enough, Rafael squeezes me, smacks me, then inexplicably says he’s missed me. At least that’s what I think he said. He’s made enough passes after all.

So now the party’s over. Quite an upset. Andy wins game, set and match.

© Richard Collins

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 Can you guess what I am? If not, read my story one more time. ONLY after doing that, scroll down the page.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I entered this into a competition in 2011 under the category Flash Fiction. Didn’t win anything sadly. If you want to be a writer, try writing some flash fiction. It’s very challenging and forces you to make every single word count. Every. Single. One. The word limit was 250 words. This one came out at 248. Not bad. I wondered if you caught them all – the tennis references, that is. There are over twenty of them. The piece took hours and hours to write and went through multiple revisions. Go on, read one more time and count them up. I’m sure you guessed first time, though, didn’t you? I’m a . . .

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