“Can we meet?”
“Sure. When?”
“Now. I can’t be alone.”
Now? It was gone half twelve.
His New Year’s resolution was to not sneer at opportunity. Nor lonely women.
Sat on a bench, Jack Daniel’s in hand, he tried to recall her face. They had chatted, at that party. Tipsy, but clear-minded for him to give her his number.
A squat, bald man approached on a bike.
“Sorry, mate. I know it’s late. I’m just so depressed.”
How did he get his number?
The party. Obviously. Bloody hell.
Cold. Tired. He played the good Samaritan.
But he was no Saint.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2026