Flash Fiction #11: When When the waiter poured his wine and offered a casual say when, he did no such thing. Instead he watched as the wine filled the glass, eventually reaching the top and overflowing onto the table cloth. The waiter looked at him as if to say say it – please say when, but he remained firm as the wine ran off the sides of the table, soaking the carpet and pooling at their feet. Soon it collected around their ankles, then their knees, and still he said nothing. Sweat beaded the waiters brow as the wine reached their waists and began pressing at the window panes. Say when! his eyes screamed, for Gods sake say when! The bottle faltered in the waiter’s hand but still he said nothing – still the wine continued to flow. There was a sound of splintered glass as the windows gave way and the wine gushed onto the streets; a claret tsunami. Traffic was overturned, buildings toppled, people pulled beneath the crimson riptide. Soon the Earth was a wet ruby glistening against a jewellers black velvet. When, he said.
Posted on: Sat, 26 Jul 2014 09:48:37 +0000
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