Flash Fiction

On Thursdays she always went to the club. In the club she always ordered tequila and always put Robert Johnson on the jukebox. She always sat at the same table and no-one ever spoke to her.

Her vigil lasted several months until on the eve of some forgotten anniversary another woman approached her table, and uninvited, lit her cigarette.

The two stared at each other with an intensity that made the atmosphere crackle. They sat together without speaking, she constantly lighting her cigarette.

Eventually they left, arm in arm, and the club never opened it’s doors again.