Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner
She watched the red-haired boy from the back of the bus, excited to be on the way to Hogwarts with Ron Weasley.
Paul McCartney had written “Eleanor Rigby” for her. They’d had a torrid affair, but, devastated when Linda died, he’d pulled away.
She’d tried an affair with Tom Cruise, but he was too short.
Harrison Ford, but he was too old.
Hamlet, but really, who needed that?
So, she’d started an affair with Chris Crenshaw, rock-n-roll and sex god all wrapped in one. They were going to get married as soon as he dumped the latest ‘it’ girl on his arm.
She hated ‘it’ girls. So pretty. So stupid. So vapid.
The bus stopped and Ron-who-wasn’t-Ron disembarked. She like Harry better, anyway,
At the next stop, she stepped into the drizzle, heading to H&H Accounting.
“Morning,” the first H said as she walked in.
The second H called, “I need these figures yesterday!”
She sat down to enter them into the computer.
“I’m going to lunch with Chris, today,” she told them. “I have to leave by eleven.”
She never even saw the bus coming.