Ficly

The Best Time

I met Matthew when I was twenty-nine. All around me, my friends had got married, some even with kids, and I was left drinking alone in dusty pubs. It was in one of these pubs, after a long day’s filing, that Matthew sidled over to me.

“Bit young to be drinking cider, aren’t we?” he laughed, sitting next to me. Did he have no concept of British social formality? His eyes looked directly into mine, and it made me warm to him a bit. He obviously saw my disdainful look, saying, “Sorry! I’ll leave if you want.”
“No,” I said, a little too quickly. I slowed my pace, “No. I need someone to stop me drinking at some point.” He laughed again, in a laugh beyond his age.
I hadn’t changed into my flared jeans and tie-dyed vest, hippie that I was. Matthew said he didn’t work, that he lived in a caravan and went round the country singing.
“But I’m staying a while, for family reasons,” he said. “How about I buy this next one?”
Then he laughed that happy-making laugh again.

This story has no comments.