‘Do you take cheques?’
The barman shook his head with the adopted expression of a man who’d just stepped into dog-shit as Bret counted out his loose change malevolently into his personal puddle of beer on the bar.
Bret then tore the picture of his wife’s new man and his son into quarters. Some anniversary, he snarled to himself.
Downing his pint, yet still feeling like a marionette controlled by an incompetent puppeteer, he walked unsteadily over to where she sat.
Courage fuelled, the challenge was to now simply speak.
In a voice he barely recognised, he managed to ask the fateful question:
‘Would you like to dance?’
(A flash story told in 100 words - no more, no less - inspired by the above photo)
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