Her nails shone with clear polish. There was some comfort in seeing the familiar small mole on her left hand.
Footsteps crunched on gravel. Someone was heading towards her down the driveway.
A man, visible from the light of the pub windows and the solitary streetlamp.
A man with rosy cheeks and grey Dickensian whiskers and a wax jacket.
A Toby jug made flesh. He seemed, from his overly careful gait, to be slightly drunk.
“Goodnight, Nora. I’ll be back on Friday. For the folk singer. Dan said he’s a good one.”
In this life she probably knew the man’s name. “Right. Yes, of course. Friday. It should be a great night.”
At least her voice sounded like her. She watched as the man crossed the road,
looking left and right a few times despite the clear absence of traffic, and disappearing down a lane between the cottages.
It was really happening. This was actually it. This was the pub life.
This was the dream made reality. “This is so very weird,” she said into the night.
“So. Very. Weird.” A group of three left the pub then too. Two women and a man.
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