Flash Fiction 2nd Place: Since. Because. You Know by Tracey Astell

It’s been three hours and 42 minutes since the postman handed me my invitation to “The Wedding of the Year” and three hours, 41 minutes since I watched myself crumple it in one hand and toss it into the wicker bin in the corner.

Five years have passed since we last saw each other in that dingy cafe at the back end of town. I expected something more upmarket, so, because I was naive, I sneered and said:

“The food will be rubbish!” Which was only my opinion, and you thought me rude. The food wasn’t rubbish, but I didn’t say. Instead, I asked if, by taking me there, you were hiding me away. You said you’d had enough of my complaining, and I was convinced I’d hit that wobbly nail smack on centre. I stormed off and, although you tried, I refused to take your calls.

Now, I stare daggers at the wastepaper basket and ponder why you think your new wife, on the happiest day of her life and three weeks before Christmas, would enjoy meeting me.

So, since I’m not going, I imagine I’ll wear Gothic black, and picture your friends taking pity on me as I stand outside, shivering in the snow. I’ll smoke Superkings, because I can, and because I know you hate smokers. Then someone will ask, “Are you married?” And I’ll wave my cigarette around like Greta Garbo and answer:

“No, all the men I meet are square pegs, and I’m a hexagonal-shaped, 3D, iridescent spiral, made from multifaceted crystal.” Then watch their gaze drift until they go and find someone less interesting to talk to. And it’s not as if I ever intend to be rude; it’s just that sometimes the pain seeps through.

After a while, I cross the room, retrieve the invitation, and smooth out its bent corners. The venue is a castle in Scotland, a place I’ve always wanted to visit.

So, since I’m considering going, I buy a new, green, velvet dress that brings out the colour of my eyes, because it’s festive, and I can wear it to another party the following week, and, you know, because I’m not a stroppy teenager.

I decide to go for an hour in the evening, say hello, have a drink, toast the happy couple, fake a previous engagement.

The place twinkles like the tinsel on the tree. It’s also mobbed. A dance beat pulses through the ancient hallway. I see the bride at the far end of the room. She’s stunning, surrounded by admirers, oblivious to me. I realise this isn’t about me, and as I turn to go, there you are.

“You came!” You’re smiling, but I notice the tears glistening at the corners of your eyes. You hold out your arms, and as I fall into them, you wrap them around me.

“Hello, Dad,” I say, and we both know I’ve not called you Dad since I was fifteen, because, well, you know.