by Liza Walter

“Deb, where did you go last night?” I whispered into the phone so Doris wouldn’t hear. She was 82, and very old fashioned. Swearing and girly escapades were not something she was fond of.

“You were too busy with Mr. Black Hair Guy. I waved over to you that I was leaving with Jeff. That guy I met last week? He was there too. Man, you were in your own world last night! What happened? I want all the details.” Deb fished for information but unfortunately, Doris was in too close proximity to give in to her.

“I’ll have to tell you later. Come over around 5:30.” I hung up the phone and saw Doris glaring at me, more than likely asking herself why she was punished by getting stuck with the whore in the next cubicle.


“Hi Veronica Valley. What do your friends call you?” Trevor asked. He stood against the bar with a drink in his hand. It looked like soda but I couldn’t tell if there was any alcohol in it.


“Do I get to call you Vee?”

“We’ll have to see about that, won’t we?” I said. I knew I was flirting but felt completely out of myself. I was a character in one of the books I always had my nose in and not Vee. I wish I had finished that stupid book. Maybe I’d have an idea about how this night was going to end. He laughed. His smile seemed to light up the darkened room.

“Well, let’s work on it. For now, Ms. Valley, let me buy you a drink. What’s your poison?” He said as he turned to the bar. I turned along with him and knocked the drink right out of his hand and all over my plaid shirt. Brown stains popped up like balloons at a party. I should never be allowed beverages was the conclusion I had drawn from the day.

“I’m so sorry!” He said.

“No, no. It’s me. Clumsy me. I already spilled water on my keyboard at work and now…what is this you’re drinking?” I asked as I took off my button down shirt and wrapped it around my waist.

“Cola. Been sober five years now.”

“Sober, but hanging out in a bar. That’s got to be a hard one. But I have to ask. Why?”

“Well, Veronica Valley. When I get to call you Vee, I’ll tell you my history. Deal?” He smiled and put his hand out for a shake. I took his hand and like a wave at a sports event, every hair from top to bottom charged up with electricity. Trevor was different. I felt it. He looked at his phone as it rang the “La Bamba” ringtone.

“I’m sorry Ms. Valley, that’s an important business call that I must take. Maybe I’ll see you around again?”

“Maybe.” I said. He handed money to the bartender and pointed to me.

“Next round is on me, okay?” I smiled. There was definitely something about Trevor.

The Art of Life and Love is a weekly flash fiction series by Liza Walter. You can read the story from the beginning here.


Please follow and like us:
Load More Related Articles
  • A Poor Idea of Pillow Talk

    by Jaime Faulkner A Poor Idea of Pillow Talk I ask him what I should do with his body shou…
  • The Distance of Funeral

    by Matt Gillick The Distance of Funeral A silent film actor died a few days ago. The mourn…
  • Waiting for Death

    by Anna Kapunga Waiting for Death Smell the flesh in the vents Blue sky through the grid l…
Load More By lipstickparty mag
Load More In Art/Lit

Check Also

A Poor Idea of Pillow Talk

by Jaime Faulkner A Poor Idea of Pillow Talk I ask him what I should do with his body shou…