Kindness & Happenstance: A Short Story Collection by T J Bainz

Author:T J Bainz [Bainz, T J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: DIB Books

2

FOR A FEW DESPERATE, and intensely embarrassing, seconds he stared at that half-chewed, near-swallowed chunk of meat-and-potato pie and watched the steam rising up off it. And then, as the blood drained back out of his brain, and allowed him to think clearly once more, he undoubled himself, and straightened back up in his seat, panting and sweating profusely.

Remembering himself, he glanced to his side, to his newly arrived neighbour.

And saviour.

Strangely, Floyd felt a slight flutter in his chest, not one for clichés, but he couldn’t help remarking that it was something like those butterflies in the stomach regency ladies might have. Yes, just like one of those regency ladies in one of the dozens of nineteenth century novels which lined his study shelves at home.

That was odd.

The olive-skinned man sitting beside him was smirking lightly, and now that Floyd got a proper look at him, he saw he had deep, chocolate-toned eyes: rich and exotic, which just about matched his accent, which Floyd pinned as being Italian.

“You are . . . er . . . okay?”

Floyd could hardly think the reply to himself, let alone get the words out through his lips. But he had to try. This man, after all, appeared to have saved his life. Still somewhat flustered, Floyd took another deep breath, feeling it hum right down to the very base of his lungs, and then he said, “Yes, I think I’m quite all right now.”

The Italian—?—man gazed at Floyd with those beautiful, chocolate eyes of his, with that warm, seductive smile there, and Floyd found himself gazing down to the man’s lap, to his hands that he clasped there, just below his thigh. The man wore brown leather gloves, and these didn’t look anything like the ones he might pick up from the discount bin at a service station shop.

No, these looked remarkably designer.

As if in acknowledgment of Floyd’s stare, the man clasped his hands together, interlocking his fingers, making the leather creak just a little. And then, through his elegant, mahogany lips, he let go of a brief, but sincerely fed-up sigh.

“Ah,” Floyd began, somewhat unconvincingly, “is something the matter?”

The man continued to face forwards, to look down at the football pitch, to that luscious, extremely well-watered turf that gleamed in the late-afternoon sunlight. He tightened his clasped, leather-gloved hands, and then replied, still facing forwards, “Myself, and my wife, we have just arrived to your city.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Hmm.”

Floyd studied the man’s reply, not quite sure how to categorise it. It was something between an acknowledgement and a note of surrender. Floyd followed the man’s gaze and saw that the kids’ game was being broken up by a pair of the track-suited chaperones, and the kids, perhaps because of the thousands of spectators already jammed into their seats, were diligently helping to gather up the luminescent cones and the few spare balls which dotted the turf. Soon the City players would be out on the pitch, and going through their training drills. Then the match would start, and the ninety minutes would play out before them.

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