Five very very short stories

i

Sometimes it's best if you just talk about it, she said, chasing the last chip round the bowl. I'm not sure it is, he replied, I think that people talk about things too much these days. The waitress brought the bill, on a small china dish. They looked at it for what felt like days.

ii

She never told the girl that the sunbeds had been re-tubed. The girl didn't know that she'd hated her since primary school, the girl didn't even recognise her, and every week she wondered why she came out burnt.

iii

He was well aware that the staff pitied him, night after night on his own, nursing a few pints alone before heading off home. He could imagine the words they would use, lonely, loser, sad. But each night he'd have three or four, fold his coat, pay his bill, smile and leave. They'd never know that he was profoundly untroubled by what they thought, this made him unaccountably happy.

iv

He had resisted moving for years, and she wondered why they still stayed in their first home when they could now afford much better. Eventually she despaired of pursuing it. Moving house is a dangerous past-time, he thought. Every first loft has a box full of letters that are best left unread, photos that are best left unseen. 

v

The day that Prince Philip died, he remembered the day, years before, when Princess Diana had. He'd had a hangover then, too. The sombre music was soothing.