flash fiction
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In the end, you do some laundry. You sit outside on the battered chair and watch as the washing dries on the line. While you watch, you smoke cigarettes, and drink coffee. You flick ash on the ground. You remember how you used to drink your coffee black and long because that’s how they drank
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A glass of water, no ice, and a small white cup filled with dark strong very thick coffee. A pastry, with a slightly salty taste, crumby and delicious, and still warm. Sunlight, because I always take this table, near to the door, by the open windows. Guido is making hot fatty breakfasts for the tourists.
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She buys cheap shampoos for the smell. She’s got bottles of the stuff. It hurts your nose to sniff them, they’re all so chemical. I came out of the bathroom saying that I didn’t know how she could use that cheap shit, that I was surprised her hair wasn’t falling out. ‘I’ve told you,’ she
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She said she was bored. Then she shot upright and said that I should paint her. I was cool to the idea, at first, coming out of the blue like that. But as she talked about it, I began to see that it might be quite interesting. She was going to undress, and drape herself on the
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Handstands man wandered into the kitchen earlier, opening all the cupboards like he owns the place, looking for strong liquor. Jodie didn’t say anything. She melts for a tight body. He’s a bit thin for her, maybe, but I could tell she likes him. He doesn’t shave or sculpt his pubes, and he’s milky-skinned with
Barry Lee Thompson 