Man in a Black Coat, Smoking
She stared at him, eyes wild, mouth open. Then she turned and ran.
She said she’d come if she could slip away, said she’d meet him behind the pub at six. He waited for her, shivering in the parking lot. Leaning against the wall he looked like a part of the graffiti – man in a black coat, smoking.
Ray must have come home early, the bastard. When will she leave him? Will she ever be able to leave him?
After an hour, he went around front and walked into The Rook and The Raven. Condensation dripped from the windows, the air was thick and steamy, but he welcomed the heat.
“Hey, Jackson. What’s up, man?” the bartender smiled.
“Nothing,” he answered, shaking his head. “You know, just hanging out.”
“Get ya a Lagunitas?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
He’d already ordered a second beer, when he saw her standing in the doorway. Her damp coat was hanging limp around her knees, a yellow wool cap pulled down over her ears. She stared at him, eyes wild, mouth open. Then she turned and ran out.
He followed her around the corner, into the night. Taking her in his arms under the streetlamp, he saw the bruises and the tears on her cheek, the blood on her shaking hands.
They both knew she had to leave him. He now found himself praying to all the gods that she didn’t leave him … dead.
I remember this one from the first time around. It still gave me a chill at the end.
Oh, I think I remember this one - such a great story! It's made me shiver all over again, Sharron!