Doomsdates > A Girl Named Al
AL
By Fran Oliver (@uncletogsworth)
By Fran Oliver (@uncletogsworth)
After the separation, he often found himself in the pub with Al. Untethered from the comforting rituals of domesticity, they bonded awkwardly over single malt, poker and guilty glances at the barmaid. They discussed the hands they’d lost and railed against the endless paperwork involved in a custody battle.
One night, the text arrived. A short salacious paragraph accompanied by a candid selfie. Unfussy chignon; sleek scarlet dress with coquettish look to camera; tragically misplaced apostrophe. She was young, of course, and this both excited and depressed him. He started to compose a reply, reluctantly removing a vowel or two and adding some exclamation marks to sound less middle-aged. |
He passed the phone across the bar for approval. Al laughed. A proper laugh, rich with irony and honeycomb. “Maybe I should send you one of those,” she said, letting her shirt slip a little as she deleted the message. |