The Importance of Being Frank
Frank backed into the glass door of Garfunkels and dragged icy London wind inside. It said wait here to be seated but he’d waited long enough, years, and pushed the sign over.
She was easy to spot - few women wore feather boas without cameramen. Tough steak abandoned, she was dragging a chip backwards and forwards through ketchup and staring into empty space when he clunked down opposite.
In the bantamweight bout for her attention, empty space retained the title on points.
Frank pulled off his ginger wig and flung it at a framed photograph of the Titanic inside the crimson booth. He removed his glasses with the false nose attached and popped out cyan contact lenses. He banged his cold, clenched fist on the table and roared to the concrete canopy. Her gaze drifted to him like an unemployed cloud.
Taking off his coat, Frank tossed it on the floor and, seizing her bottle, tipped some wine over it. He had a lighter but liked the candle better - within seconds the coat was ablaze. The carpet was dirty enough to burn and a curtain of flame quickly rose to enclose them.
American tourists gasped, the wait staff looked lost and outside the restaurant, sirens faded.
Suddenly, her right side feeling the heat, she was looking at the end of a tranquiliser gun and noticed the orange flickering reflected in the glass casing of a dart.
He took a deep breath. "Well?"
She wiped away a bead of perspiration and ate the chip.
"Ok," she sighed wearily, "The Bends was better."
submitted at 9:56am
30 November 2007