The Last Night by Penny Rogers, a bottle of single malt whisky

The long day ended. The promised call didn’t come. He fiddled with the ring on the third finger of his left hand. In the twilight he walked three times around the garden. Night fell and still he waited. His phone remained silent. He poured a drink, scotch and water. It tasted of iron and misery. A text arrived, reminding him of a dental appointment. Silent phone, silent night. He took off his ring. Held it to a lamp and read the inscription around the inside. Amor Vincit Omnia. No, he mused, love does not conquer all. With neglect it atrophies and dies. Until 2.00 a.m. he dozed in the chair. Still no call. Whisky bottle empty. Fingers of grey in the eastern sky told him dawn was approaching. He put the ring back on his finger. Charged the phone. Still no call. In the growing light he walked around the garden. Once. Sounds of Big Ben on next door’s radio. Seven chimes. The phone jangled in his hand. He put it down. Took off the ring. Put that in a drawer. Walked away. The jangling ceased. It was over.

 

About the author

Penny Rogers writes mostly short stories, flash fiction and poetry. She has been published in print and online and had some success in literary competitions. She is a member of the management team for SOUTH poetry magazine and facilitates a very informal writing group in her home town.

 

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