How To Write Flash Fiction (7)
I dreamt of Yvonne again last night. I knew her sixty years ago when I had only recently arrived in London. I was teaching in a small private school in South London, and the small Nat West bank where Yvonne was a bank teller, was just a couple of doors away, and she usually dealt with me whenever I had banking business. I immediately noticed her courtesy to me, and she always had time for a smile and a chat. How was I liking London? Did I support Crystal Palace? Did I live in a bedsit? How did I spend my week-ends. Did I have somebody to go to the cinema with? Did I have a girl-friend? It finally dawned upon me that she was actually sweet on me, and was inviting me to ask her out. I became quite enamoured of her, but never dared ask her out.
Now, sixty years on, I regret this. I have gone out with a number of young women in this time, some pretty, others not so pretty, but probably none as attractive as Yvonne. Certainly none nicer. Most were taller than me, since the very few that I met who were not, seemed uninterested in me. I am quite sensitive about my lack of inches, and had resolved that I would never go out with a girl who dominated me. Not that there were too many of those around. There was a reason why I never asked Yvonne out: I never saw her standing up, as she was always seated behind her window, and feared that she might be a whole head taller than me, and so I kept my romantic feelings to myself for sixty years.
