The bells of St. Brigit’s are calling tonight as he makes his way to the cozy tavern tucked between stone buildings. He opens the door to silence broken by the soft rustle of pages being turned and the occasional tap of glass on aged wood.
He sees her. Her face carries a gentle smile as she reads and sips her drink. A lock of burnished hair brushes cheeks rosy from the fire snapping nearby. He sits, spying Fitzgerald in her hands. His face falls; he brought Bronte. He opens his book and reads, stealing glances at the stranger who silently calls him from his empty home every week.
This was a piece of flash fiction inspired by this week's Write on Edge Prompt that challenged us to write a story in 108 words with the first eight given to us. I have to admit, I'm not usually a fan of flash fiction. I'm far too wordy. But this time, with peer pressure, I tried and have to admit, it was fun.