Short story: Wrong Number
Nov. 16th, 2010 09:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sandra_lindseyIt is a very short thing - just over 600 words, OpenOffice tells me - but it was fun to write, and was inspired by real life events!
Wrong Number
Hi babe phone kaput borrowing Js Will be home soon Dxx
Trev looked at his phone with a smile of amused sympathy. It was obviously a case of misremembered numbers, but business was even slower than usual at the bar this Monday, and this promised at least a moment's diversion.
Hi D (or J). Sorry to hear about your phone. Whose home will you be at? If mine, you'll need my address. T
He hit 'send' and rearranged the cocktail display for the fifth time that day. A soft beep announced another message.
Sorry mate. Friend borrowed my phone but couldn't remember his wife's number. Hope we've not troubled you. J
Hi J. No trouble. Guess I have to cook for myself if D not coming? T
It was, he reflected as he turned to check the stock of wine on display, a good definition of futility: flirting by text message with a complete stranger. The phone was quiet for a while, and Trev assumed that whoever J was, he or she had better things to do than respond to his silly messages. He was proved wrong when the phone beeped again as he sorted boxes in the cellar.
Between you and me, be glad D's not cooking. He doesn't know an olive from an orange. J. PS What is T short for?
He shivered in the chill of the controlled atmosphere, double-checked the boxes stacked to take upstairs, and thought about his next response. Did he want to reveal his name? Would skirting the questions cause the mysterious J to cease responding? Most importantly: would continuing to send texts make the evening go quicker or slower?
Tell D olives go in martinis and oranges in soft drinks. And Pimms. T
The reply came racing back. Doubt he's seen a martini outside of a Bond film! J. PS ??
Before he'd finished reading, the message alert sounded again.
PPS J is for Justin.
Justin. Little to no chance of J being a girl then. His smile broadened and he crossed his fingers as he pressed 'send': T for Trev(or)
:-)
He dropped the phone into his apron pocket as he considered his reply. A smilie could mean anything, even "go away". Searching for work, he decided the under-counter fridges could have their weekly clean a day early and methodically emptied the first of its beers, mixers and alcopops. His phone beeped but he ignored it for a few minutes before fishing it out.
Was worried T was for Tanya or Tracey :-)
Whether or not he was interpreting that correctly, it was easy enough to toss off a reply: Do I sound like a Tanya or Tracey?
Don't know. Don't know any :-)
Ones I know abbreviate a lot more.
Ah. Another good thing about you. I like a man what writes proper.
It seemed to be a conversational dead end. Trev sent back a smilie, finished cleaning the first fridge, and was half way through the second before another message came through.
So Trev(or), you'd like someone to cook you dinner? That mean you live alone or just want a personal chef?
Am single. Are you offering your services? He grinned to himself at the double-entendre and sent another message chasing after it. Am at work till 11 though.
Am I distracting you? Oops!
He laughed. Distraction welcome. No customers. Am cleaning fridges – yay!
Sounds thrilling. Maybe I should join you?
If you want. Casey's on Briggate. Hitting 'send', he realised J for Justin might have no idea where Briggate was. Leeds he clarified.
The second fridge finished, and the third one nearly so, he assumed he'd heard the last from his correspondent when his phone emitted a final beep.
See you in an hour. Jx
Hi babe phone kaput borrowing Js Will be home soon Dxx
Trev looked at his phone with a smile of amused sympathy. It was obviously a case of misremembered numbers, but business was even slower than usual at the bar this Monday, and this promised at least a moment's diversion.
Hi D (or J). Sorry to hear about your phone. Whose home will you be at? If mine, you'll need my address. T
He hit 'send' and rearranged the cocktail display for the fifth time that day. A soft beep announced another message.
Sorry mate. Friend borrowed my phone but couldn't remember his wife's number. Hope we've not troubled you. J
Hi J. No trouble. Guess I have to cook for myself if D not coming? T
It was, he reflected as he turned to check the stock of wine on display, a good definition of futility: flirting by text message with a complete stranger. The phone was quiet for a while, and Trev assumed that whoever J was, he or she had better things to do than respond to his silly messages. He was proved wrong when the phone beeped again as he sorted boxes in the cellar.
Between you and me, be glad D's not cooking. He doesn't know an olive from an orange. J. PS What is T short for?
He shivered in the chill of the controlled atmosphere, double-checked the boxes stacked to take upstairs, and thought about his next response. Did he want to reveal his name? Would skirting the questions cause the mysterious J to cease responding? Most importantly: would continuing to send texts make the evening go quicker or slower?
Tell D olives go in martinis and oranges in soft drinks. And Pimms. T
The reply came racing back. Doubt he's seen a martini outside of a Bond film! J. PS ??
Before he'd finished reading, the message alert sounded again.
PPS J is for Justin.
Justin. Little to no chance of J being a girl then. His smile broadened and he crossed his fingers as he pressed 'send': T for Trev(or)
:-)
He dropped the phone into his apron pocket as he considered his reply. A smilie could mean anything, even "go away". Searching for work, he decided the under-counter fridges could have their weekly clean a day early and methodically emptied the first of its beers, mixers and alcopops. His phone beeped but he ignored it for a few minutes before fishing it out.
Was worried T was for Tanya or Tracey :-)
Whether or not he was interpreting that correctly, it was easy enough to toss off a reply: Do I sound like a Tanya or Tracey?
Don't know. Don't know any :-)
Ones I know abbreviate a lot more.
Ah. Another good thing about you. I like a man what writes proper.
It seemed to be a conversational dead end. Trev sent back a smilie, finished cleaning the first fridge, and was half way through the second before another message came through.
So Trev(or), you'd like someone to cook you dinner? That mean you live alone or just want a personal chef?
Am single. Are you offering your services? He grinned to himself at the double-entendre and sent another message chasing after it. Am at work till 11 though.
Am I distracting you? Oops!
He laughed. Distraction welcome. No customers. Am cleaning fridges – yay!
Sounds thrilling. Maybe I should join you?
If you want. Casey's on Briggate. Hitting 'send', he realised J for Justin might have no idea where Briggate was. Leeds he clarified.
The second fridge finished, and the third one nearly so, he assumed he'd heard the last from his correspondent when his phone emitted a final beep.
See you in an hour. Jx
