NEW FICTION
“Oh no, he can’t. My father died a year ago yesterday.” She tapped his shoulder. “Do you think that’s significant? The fact that they died on the same day, a year apart?”
Blake didn’t think so and didn’t want to hear some stranger’s life story. Hoping it would end the discourse, he said, “I think it means your dad was a very special person.”
“He was.”
Hours earlier, back in his apartment, Blake had pondered calling Christine. He’d stare at his wall phone, consider picking it up, but didn’t follow through. Instead, he called the office and lied, saying he was ill, unable to go in. Well, he was ill, emotionally sick to his stomach, reeling from the reports of the murder of John Lennon the night before. Throughout the morning, he occupied himself by pulling out his Beatles and Lennon’s solo record albums. He gazed at the pictures and read the liner notes, knowing but not yet comprehending that a door had shut, a wall had risen, over his past. Since last night, it seemed the entire world had focused on the Dakota. He watched on TV as crowds had collected outside to hold an impromptu vigil. Seeing that, he decided to join them. No doubt, he would find Christine there. That had to be better than phoning and possibly having to talk to her husband.
The mist turned to rain. The woman opened her umbrella and covered them both.
“Thank you.”
COMING SOON to New Pop Lit!
