# 1 Untitled yet

Yesterday I set the scene for a short short story without having any idea other than it would be about a postman in a southern England lunchtime pub whose wife had left him. This then is the first part of a unique fiction. In writing it I have gained a glimmering of where it might go from here ... keep watching ...

#1: No Title (My titles always come last)

Roger behind the bar spatula’d off the excess head of beer, pulled to top up the glass, handed him his next pint. ‘You OK, Tommy?’ he said, then at once, ‘Sorry, sorry. Stupid question. Listen mate, cheer up. What is it - three months now and not a word? She’s just not worth it.’

Tommy shifted on his bar stool but said nothing. He’d said enough. Right now he was trying not to think about Glo and her new man. ‘Angelo’! whoever that bastard might be. Snow had piled up outside in the corners of the pub’s window panes like on all the poxy Christmas cards. No sooner the postman’s back-breaking Christmas gone than yet more cards today; bloody Valentine’s. All the coloured envelopes, some with stuff on the back like SWALK, BURMA, ISYU. Most of them obviously husband to wives or more likely wives to husbands or more likely wives to someone else’s bloody husband. Had Gloria sent her Angelo one?

‘You finished for today?’ Roger asked.

‘Yeah. Finished’

‘Good.’ He wiped off the bar top. ‘’Postman drunk in charge of a push bike’ won’t help, will it?’ he added, and laughed. The well suited businessman sitting up the bar a bit raised his head from his paper and scampi and glass of white wine. ‘If this goes on much longer, Tommy, you’ll be having to dig your bike out. Leave it there for a bit, mate, right? I’ll see it‘s OK.’ You’re best off on good old Shanks’s pony home today.

‘Yeah? Bike belongs to the Post Office. Let them come and dig it out,’ Tommy muttered.

Roger shrugged, moved off to talk to his only other customer. There was a good fire in here. Nice and warm. Comfortable smells of yesterday’s beer and today’s fried food. Tommy was not hungry and wasn’t thirsty but he was going to get well outside a whole lot of beer today, like he did most days these days, and to hell with bloody Glo and her Italian bloody stallion. Plumber, she’d said! Angelo the plumber. Sounded like a bloody Ninja Turtle. Well, he’d plumbed Gloria all right. Bastard! He blinked back the tears of self-pity. Twenty two years married and she hadn’t told him nothing about it. Not a blind thing til he’d got home that time, picked up the envelope off the kitchen table. Nothing. Not how long it had been going on for nor any damn thing except she loved the man but didn’t want to hurt him, her husband. No address where they’d buggered off to. Nothing! The rest of his new pint disappeared in one long swallow. He banged down the glass for another. His stool tipped over sideways and he went down hard. Something seemed to be breaking. Something other than his heart.

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