I’m going to attempt to place a short story here every week. Some will have been published, others, like this one, will never have been seen. I’m doing this to give readers an idea of the scope of my writing and as a way to stimulate my writing discipline.
I’ll illustrate each with a relevant image, sometimes a sketch, sometimes a photograph. Many of those will be from my own library, others will be generated by AI, as I have little skill as a draftsman. The one above is my first attempt at using the MS Paint app combined with its Co-pilot feature. It’s reasonable, but time and experience will allow me to produce better pictures, I hope!
For now, please read and enjoy the short story (it’s less than 1,000 words) and please place any comments in the space at the foot of the post. Thank you.

Side By Side

‘How many weeks?’

She closed her book and turned, at last, to face him; gave him a smile that words could never serve. ‘Weeks? One year, three weeks, two days and a little under half an hour. That’s how long.’

For a while, she kept her gaze on him. He’d known her eyes were blue, of course. But such a match for the sky? Did they reflect it, or was she responsible for its unseasonal brilliance? When he failed to speak, she made a small frown of disappointment and returned to her book.

Over a year: so long? And now they’d spoken. Exchanged words. At last. He’d watched her travel the path from the west and noticed her small concession to the changing weather. Bright, but still chill after the early frost, it wasn’t the season for unclad legs. She wore opaque tights beneath the usual short length of bright fabric. Her fine pins sheathed but their shape undisguised. Her jacket bore a fake fur collar, and she wore a contrasting sweater beneath. But her feet were still shod in high heels that gave little warmth in this air.

He watched her brush russet leaves from the bench she always occupied, heard her small cry of dismay as she discovered the pigeons’ gift from the overhead branches. It was an opening, a chance to speak to her. ‘This one’s clean. And there’s plenty of room.’

She tilted her head at him, made a small question with her face, and nodded as he slid a short distance along his matching bench to let her sit beside him in the place he’d warmed.

His iPad rested in his lap as he finished the Coronation chicken sandwich bought en route from work. Today, on wholemeal. Better for the health. She seemed never to eat lunch, and he put her slender figure down to that abstinence. A glance told him that today she read science fiction: the cover of her book depicting a stylised exploding supernova. Should he interrupt her reading? He hated it when people did that to him. But she’d counted the hours since they’d started this strange and hopeful habit. That must mean something, mustn’t it?

If he was to break into her privacy, insert himself into her story, he must make the words both pertinent and wise. He mustn’t make her think him a fool, a man without the sensitivity to be aware that he was interrupting.

‘I don’t like to intrude, but I see you’re reading Fusion. What do you think of the stories?’

Did the way she closed the book mask impatience, frustration? Or did she wonder why he hadn’t spoken earlier, before she’d taken up the book again? Had he blown it straight away?

‘Like so many anthologies, it’s a mixture. Some deep and thoughtful, a few that could be called trivial but most good, honest science fiction tales. At least, as far as I’ve read. You know it?’

A conversation. They were talking. At least, they would be if he could form the words to continue the topic. ‘When it first came out, in ebook form, I read a lot on this.’ He turned the iPad screen for her to see.

‘Oh. I thought you were always playing games or sending pictures of cats to social network friends.’ The tinge of mockery on the last word echoed his own feelings of the inadequacies of relying on such vague and varied relationships for friendship.

‘Not a cat person, to be honest. And Facebook, Instagram, et al have their uses but they’re no substitute for talking and meeting with real people, are they?’

She smiled. Again. A smile of warmth and maybe even a hint of genuine happiness. ‘I thought you’d never get around to talking to me. I wondered if I might not be your type, or perhaps you were gay. Over a year since we first sat here side by side on our separate benches. And now, at last, we’re exchanging words and discovering each other.’

‘I’m generally shy, particularly around women. Especially those as attractive and…’

She shook her head. ‘Not allowed. Stick to facts, for now. You might get away with flattery once we know each other better.’ The humour in her voice softened her words.

‘Not flattery; just the truth.’ He waited. Had he blown it this time?

‘Okay. I’ll accept that. Why are you shy? I mean, you’re good looking and apparently intelligent. Why shy?’

‘Mother dropped me on my head fresh from the bath in front of a gathering of her Women’s Institute cronies. It left a deep scar.’

She picked the clues from that and rewarded him with a proper smile, a small laugh. And gently nipped his thigh. ‘You’re a great big liar.’

‘I guess we’re all out of the habit of talking to each other. Our parents benefited from ancient technology and had no choice. No Twitter or YouTube for them. They had to meet and speak if they were ever to obey the biological imperative.’

‘A little early in our relationship to be introducing the idea of progeny. But I’ll let that pass, on the grounds that you’re painting the wider picture, rather than a specific portrait of our potential future.’ Her eyes exposed the laugh beneath the mask of stern ice maiden.

He dared a hand on hers and she made no move to end the contact. Ungloved, her hand felt surprisingly warm and fitting for his.

‘At the cost of sinning with a cliché, we should do this more often.’

She turned her intense blue eyes on him, nodded and smiled her lovely welcome. ‘Lost time to make up.’

-ends-