Five Decembers

by James Kestrel

Bad timing, but dead men weren’t known for their luck.

Fred Ball was sitting alone at the wooden table. A single overhead bulb cast a cone of light around him. He had a glass of ice water. He’d dipped his handkerchief in it, had wrapped the wet cloth around the knuckles of his left hand. The story around the station was that Ball had gotten meaner after his wife took off.

Character building

Missing her was its own peculiar satisfaction. It was proof he belonged somewhere.

He guessed half the businesses on the block were brothels. The other half depended on them.

“You’re a pacifist?” “Would that surprise you?” “A bit.” “There are plenty of us. Our voices weren’t heard. We were speaking reasonably. They were waving swords and shouting. It wasn’t an even contest.”

“Sometimes Joe is too simple. Sometimes I like to hear your whole name.” “But I’m simple.” She reached beneath the table, and took his left hand. You are not. Nothing is. Nothing ever will be.

He ordered a two-finger pour of scotch. The good stuff, from the Isle of Skye.