December Flash tale #1 - "The Offer"

December 2022

45 minutes from Parkdale

Today, I find myself on a train, sitting opposite a guy in a suit. He’s late thirties and digging into his second mince pie. I look at the Marks and Spencer box on the table between us.  There’s four more, and I wonder if he’s planning to finish the lot between here and Luton.

The guy is has got flakes of pastry on his chin. There's a shiny sultana on his tie. He’s making a mess. And if I can be completely honest, he hasn’t so much as glanced at me. Which is weird, because I’m very pretty, and guys like this, normally they’ll at least say something.

I keep my gloves on - pink wool, so soft – even though the man is not a target. And then he answers his phone, and I’m pretty sure he should be a target.

“It’s over. I thought maybe…I don’t know what I thought.” He groans. “Like she’d have second thoughts.” He looks down at his hands, rubs the finger where a wedding ring would belong.

Normally I would call this in. Most of our work is on contract, but we have discretion. The PPA calls these spontaneous jobs ‘breadcrumbs’ – like we’re tidying up.

But I already know that if I call, I won’t get a direct response. I haven’t had real contact with the Parkdale Parenting Association in weeks.

I wouldn’t call it a communications blackout. More like a situation at a factory when you’ve built all these great relationships with people, and everyone’s on the same page, and then the company is taken over, there’s new management, and the guys working the floor don’t know what’s going to happen next. So, there’s ‘communications’, but it’s vague.

Stay in place.

Thank you for the work that you do!

I don’t have any targets. Nothing on my list, no fresh pings on my phone apart from the daily messages from the PPA that make me feel simultaneously as though something huge, and absolutely nothing, is just around the corner.

Stand by.

You are an integral part of our success!

I know – I mean, it’s obvious – that a lot of agents have left town. Rats deserting the ship and all that.

I’m not a rat.

So, what do agents do – the ones that are left - when they have nobody to regress?

Wait for instructions.

We stay in place. We stand by. Turns out, we do the same things we did before. For me, it’s the train. I take the Thameslink to London and back, I do it twice a day. I look and I listen, and the funny thing is; I listen to enough conversations, watch enough body language, and you can convince yourself that pretty much everybody needs a visit to Parkdale.

But this guy is different. This guy ticks all the boxes.

He licks his fingers, eyes a third pie, and finally he looks at me.

Come on, do the thing men do when they see me, all by my lonesome. Show off how important you are, try and find out if I’m attached. Give me a damn smile, at least.

Instead, he sighs, slides the cellophane case of pies back into the box. “I’ve got nothing,” he says into the phone. “Had all these Christmas plans because I thought I could put it all back together, and now…there’s nothing.” His voice trails off.

He listens. And then he produces a bark of a laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think Santa can help with this one.”

His eyes get wet. He’s thinking of simpler times, probably. A time when he could write a letter to a fat man in a red suit, and he could believe in Christmas magic.

Maybe, he’s going to cry.

I hope he doesn’t. If he cries, in public like this, with the pretty woman sitting across from him, then he’ll be embarrassed. Most men, especially men like this, they don’t want my pity, they don’t want to feel small.

Which is pretty ironic, of course.

“See you later,” he says, sounding husky. He puts the phone in his jacket pocket.

I don’t have to make the offer. I could just stand back, stand by.

But if I don’t act here, what am I doing? What’s the point of me?

He takes his hands off the table, shrugs them into his trouser pockets.

I need those hands. I need to be able to work my magic. And really, I could just reach out and touch his face, but that’s a brave move. Some targets would take it, they would feel my touch on their cheek, and I could see their eyes change, I could watch as their minds open up.

No. Too risky. If he flinches, if he makes a fuss, then I lose him. I can’t afford for him to put up his defences. I want him to open up like a flower.

So, I ask a stupid question.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my tone soft and sleepy, “Do you have the time?”

He looks at me across the table. And you might think, given what he’s going through, that he might feel he has permission to tell me to leave him the hell alone.

But they’re never rude. Not when the first question is so bland, so harmless.

He gives the slightest of nods, produces a hand, shakes his wrist to reveal his watch. (It looks expensive, but I can’t tell the brand. Of course, having money doesn’t count for much if you’re going to be alone at Christmas).

He tells me the time.

I don’t care about the time.

I reach with my pink-gloved hand, curl my fingers around his. It’s a tight grip but it feels so soft. They really are the very best gloves. And I watch as his eyes widen in surprise, and then his expression softens, to match the gloves, to match the kindest of sensations in his mind.

I smile. I ask a real question. I make the offer.

“Want to start again?” I squeeze his fingers with my pink softness. “Want to be blameless?”

He swallows. He nods. And he squeezes back. He understands something very important; I’m in control now.

We leave the train at Parkdale.

THE END

A Parkdale agent overhears a recently divorced man wishing Santa could give him a fresh start - Rick