“Red Fire” © Glenn Bowie

 

Off Piccadilly

In a tea shop off Piccadilly I have a small round table at the window all to myself. At dusk these little eateries jam up fast. It’s not unusual for strangers to share under such circumstances. So when the guy standing over me asks if he might occupy the extra chair, I answer Sure!

‘Cause he’s kinda cute. Tall, dark wavy hair, deep dimples that flash me. I’m a sucker for those kinds of dimples. Per usual the fall weather is cold and wet. A grey woolly scarf sprinkled with little black dots like pepper is triple wound around his neck. “Blasted chilly evening,” he says adjusting the chair.

“Yeah, but it’s nice and warm in here.”

Soon as I came in, I had taken off my brown waxed jacket draping it over the back of my chair. He, on the other hand, is leaving the scarf wrapped and his jacket zipped.

He snaps his fingers to catch the server’s attention, orders a pint. The girl tells him they don’t sell beer, just tea and the usual bits. He grunts. A trait which I don’t find all that attractive in a man. His eyes dash across my plate of food, dimples flashing again. Is that an involuntary action?

I sip my steaming tea. I’m thinking that people with deep dimples get dispensations. If that grunt he made about no pints sold here came out of, say, a flat cheeked guy—

I’d already be looking to change my seat.

“American?” His knuckles thump the table.

I shake my head. Well, obviously. My accent can’t be anything but. What game is he playing?

“I’ll have the Darjeeling,” he tells the girl when she comes by again. I detect surliness on Darjeeling. She nods in that shrugging I could care less way. I admire that. I don’t yet have that acquired skill down pat.

Even when he sips the steaming Darjeeling he doesn’t loosen his scarf.

I can’t help myself, saying, “How can you sit here all bundled up drinking hot tea?”

He says, “The tea’s a bore.” He pushes the cup and saucer to the side. “I saw you through the window and right away wanted to get to know you. Care to take a stroll?”

I hesitate. Then we both stand. I put on my jacket. We both drop some money on the table then leave. Now the night is full dark, and wetter, with puddles.

As we’re crossing Traf Square, two teenagers grab hold of his scarf, pulling it off him, running away laughing, the scarf stretched between them like a banner.

He starts to gag, his eyes sort of bugging out.

That’s when I notice. Marks on his exposed neck. Red and raw, like he’d been clawed. Before I can say a single word he jumps at me, pouncing, pushing me onto the concrete bench skirting the Square. I feel my head clunk against concrete as he sinks his teeth in my neck.

 

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty-year writer and the author of 12 published books of fiction and poetry and 5 stage plays. She has been nominated 21 times for the Pushcart Prize in both fiction and poetry. Her play Crooked Heart concerning artist Jackson Pollock premiered on October 25, 2022 at the Irish Repertory Theatre in NYC. Adapted from an earlier novel, it was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. Her new Novel Hair of a Fallen Angel is just out from Spuyten Duyvil Books. Susan is a Brand Ambassador for The Galway Review.

Glenn Bowie is a published poet, lyricist, musician and photographer from the Boston area. He also owns and operates an elevator company that supplies custom-built elevators for clients from New England to Hollywood. The author of two poetry and photograph collections (Under the Weight of Whispers and Into the Thorns and Honey) from Big Table Publishing, he donates all profits from his books to various charities for the homeless and local animal shelters.