A journal of narrative writing.
At Brokmeyer’s House
by Claude Clayton Smith

“Francine leaves now,” he said.

“What’s the matter?”

“Her mother.”

“I see.” Sitting up, Taylor studied his friend in the doorway. Cheeks flushed, hair in his eyes, Brokmeyer had never looked more like Richard Burton. “Good old Ricardo,” he said finally. “Can I see her a minute? I’d like to say goodbye.”

“There is no time. She will miss her train.”

Taylor’s head fell back on his pillow. ”I guess I should be on my way, too,” he said. “Your parents will be home soon.”

“I will take you to the station later. After I see about the cigarette machines.”

Brokmeyer closed the door, and his heavy footsteps marched to the kitchen, returning quietly to the jingle of keys. In the brief interval Francine entered the bedroom

and Taylor stood to greet her. Then Brokmeyer was back, frowning.

As Francine stepped toward him, Taylor moved to kiss her on each cheek, European style, but her lips met his, and he realized he should have slept with her.