It’s been awhile since I’ve done Sunday Photo Fiction. It’s nice to be back. To read more stories from the prompt, click here:

Doused

I smiled even as his mother spoke as if I weren’t there.

“She’s put on a bit, hasn’t she? All puffy. She’s not pregnant, is she?”

I tried to catch his eye, but he refused to meet mine.

She patted his hand. “At least you’re not married.”

Suffocating, I ventured outside the pub. I hated the bone chilling damp of English weather. Now it was an invigorating slap to battle the verbal slaps delivered by his mother.

The smoker leaning against the wall raised an eyebrow at me.

“Someone chasing you?” he asked after blowing blue-gray smoke upwards.

“Not likely.”

“A shame,” he said. “Canadian?”

“American.”

He laughed. “No one admits to that anymore.”

“Just one more screw up for the night.”

He pulled a silver flash from his leather jacket. “Excellent scotch.”

I eyed it then him. He nodded. I sipped carefully, which made him grin.

The warmth slid down my throat, spidering through my body.

“Let’s run away together,” he said.

I laughed.

“Seriously. Discover the world. Make love.”

What would it be like to run away with an enigmatic stranger?

The door opened. Sean glanced from me to the smoker. “Coming in?”

Cold drizzle fell upon me.

 

end 1/13/2018

Sascha Darlington