How Jane Lost her Favourite Coat
A Flash Fiction by Sharon Boyle
Clubs
Jane and Harry were remnants of a defunct poker club, two competitive souls who upped stakes and downed drink.
Harry held up his glass of whisky. ‘Here’s to betting and boozing.’ He swallowed and winced. ‘Jesus, this would strip paint off a wall.’
‘Another game?’
‘Have to. Else I’ll be skint till payday.’ He nodded to her empty sideboard. ‘You been tidying?’
Jane shuffled the cards. ‘I’m moving out.’
‘How far?’
‘Miles away.’
Harry licked his lips. ‘But our games?’
‘You always lose. I’m too good for you.’ Jane flicked cards to him, to her, to him. ‘Drink up.’
Harry shifted in his chair. ‘You drink up. I’m getting pissed while you act cucumber cool.’
Jane lifted the gin bottle and glugged a third of it before withdrawing the neck and wiping her mouth. ‘There, I’ve drunk up. Let’s play.’
Harry lost every penny. He swayed in the chair, holding up a wavering finger. ‘Over the last two, three, no, fourmonths, you’ve won hundreds offa me. I need to win some back.’ He sneered when a Jack Russell jumped onto her knee. ‘Buster legging it with you?’
‘He’s the only one who sticks around, so, yeah.’
Diamonds
This prompted Harry to croon about shared times, even broaching the day they talked about marriage. ‘You wanted a solitaire ring so bad, Jane, I know, but it would never’ve worked.’ He ran his hands over his face. ‘God, I’m rough. But you know what’d make me better? A chance to win some back.’
‘You won’t win. Game over.’
Harry’s head lolled back. ‘Can I bunk here?’ he asked the ceiling.
Jane pushed Buster off her knee. ‘It’s so late it’s early. Time you went.’
Hearts
She’d loved Harry once. Waited years for him to commit – gambled all her chances on him.
Harry patted his jeans pockets. ‘Loan an ol’ pardner a few quid for a taxi home?’
‘Get your coat, Harry.’
He fumbled in the hall, fighting with the coat-stand, before swinging open the door and lurching outside. Jane stood on the threshold, watching the scene: houses with closed curtains and close-cut lawns; two lycra-clad joggers; the paperboy three doors down; the lone drunk hedge-bouncing along the pavement in a salmon-pink coat.
She sighed. ‘My best one.’ She looked down as Buster licked her hand. ‘Thirsty? She poured the contents of the gin bottle into the bowl by the door and watched Buster slurp.
Movement – the paperboy. His eyes flicked to Buster, to the bottle, to Buster. He backed away and cycled off. Jane raised a hand, ready to explain it wasn’t what gin, it was… oh hell, what did it matter?
Spades
She whistled to Buster before stepping inside to collect her winnings. She’d add them to all the other winnings; use them to dig herself out of this defunct life. To shuffle round her priorities. To deal herself a fresh hand. To buy a new coat.
Author: After winning a poetry competition at the age of eleven, Sharon basked in the glory for more than three decades before once again getting down to some serious writing. Her short stories and flash have appeared in Bath Flash, Fictive Dream, HISSAC and Exeter Writers. Find her on @sharon54.bsky.social