Drabble #262

II: try to say goodbye

Considering Martin’s track record, Duxford had gone almost freakishly well. The day had, fittingly, flown by, and Martin had enjoyed being able to share his extra knowledge - the stuff the information boards left out - with someone who listened with interest, not thinly-veiled boredom. (That would’ve been a win even if he didn’t really, really like her.)

All that remained now was to try and say goodbye without coming off as expectant or dismissive or clingy or aloof or dull or strange and God, was he supposed to kiss her, or—

She solved that one by kissing him first.

Drabble #299

V: character gets an invitation to a party of the year BUT it’s on the same day as another event they wanted to attend

Arthur would understand, Martin thought, but that wasn’t really the point. Actually, it would make him feel even more guilty - Arthur was the worst person you could let down, precisely because he would never hold it against you.

He sighed. “It sounds amazing, Theresa, honestly,” he said, “But I promised Arthur ages ago that I’d be at his birthday, I can’t miss it.”

Theresa’s eyes widened. “Oh, of course you can’t! I had no idea.” She looked thoughtful for a second. “Do you think you’re allowed to bring a plus one?”

Martin laughed. “I’m sure that would be fine.”

Drabble #291

V: lollipop

“Is Aida allowed some of my lollipop?” Verity asked. “I know she’s only little, but just a tiny lick?”

Martin looked down at the baby, who was peering very curiously out of her pram. “I think she’d like that. But she probably shouldn’t - her teeth are only just coming through. That’s very kind, though.”

Verity shrugged. “Okay. What about next weekend I’m at dad’s? Will she be big enough then?”

“Hmm, not quite that soon.”

“When I’m… a hundred?”

“Well,” said Martin, seriously, “That depends how far into your nineties you are already.”

Verity giggled, and took another lick.

Drabble #252

IV: stolen handbag

Martin’s linguistic abilities were tested not long after he moved to Switzerland, as he stood holding Theresa’s bag for her while she tried on a dress, only to be accused by a security guard in very fast, very angry Italian, of having stolen it.

He was still stammering denials when Theresa returned, kissed him on the cheek and despatched the suddenly-horrified guard, who’d recognised her immediately.

“What’s so special about the bag, anyway?” Martin asked.

“Oh,” Theresa said airily, “It’s a bit of a national icon. If you had stolen it, Maxi would be calling for a beheading by now.”