Walking back from the pub. A good night. Secret smiles to self as recalling the evenings events. She was hot. Not just hot but sweet. Softer than hot. Charming. It starts to rain, just lightly. Fiddle with house key and mobile phone in pocket. Pull out phone and check her number. Jenny. It’s still there. Smile again. Rain gets heavier. Pull up jacket round neck. Can feel drips falling down spine as do so. Damn English summertime. The effects of seven pints of Blue Monkey making the walk seem longer but more pleasurable. Reach The Avenue and turn left past the bungalow with the funny shaped conifers. A mile marker. Only a few hundred yards now. The rain makes it smell greener. Can see home in the distance. Asleep and shadowed apart from a dim, outside porch light. Sleep is much needed. Sleep and dreams. Dreams of future possibilities. Reach the gate and lift the latch. House in darkness. Fish for key in pocket. No key. Take out phone and try again. No key. Impossible. Pull out pocket linings and shake thoroughly. No key. Undo coat and pull up and down. Push hands into jeans pockets. Front and back. Take out loose change. Study coins in upturned palm. No key. Go through whole rigmarole again including self body search. No key. Stress. Wet and cold. Tired. Retrace steps along The Avenue. Hard to see. One lamp post light out, faded to dull orange. Blinking. Pull out phone and use as torch. Shine on wet pavement. Something sparkly catches peripheral vision. Get closer with phone in detective mode. It’s 10 pence. Don’t even pick it up. It’s now past midnight. Don’t need this. Feel in pockets again. Check for ripped lining with forefingers. Wipe rain from face. Feel slightly nauseous. Turn at bungalow and just round the corner. No key. Turn back round. Decide to face the music. Still looking. Just incase. Reach gate and look up at house. Total darkness. Lift plant pot outside door. No key. No spare. Try door. Tentatively. Locked tight. Breathe in deep and sigh. Dry mouth. Knock on door. Twice. Nothing. House still dormant. Wait. Silence. Knock again. Louder. Three times. Listen. Light appears through obscure glass in door. More light. The shape of a father figure grows bigger. Dread. The sound of locks disengaging. Clench fists in pockets. Door opens. He stands there in a black dressing gown. Tired and grey faced from endless shift work. From too little sleep. From being woken. Emotionless expression. Drawn lips. Hard to read. Easy to feel.
“Where’s your key? ”
Labels: atozchallenge, Blue monkey brewery, doors, key, lost, real ales