There’ll be a Really Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight

“I’m Detective Flame, Miss. Harry Flame. Care to talk about it.”

She’s on the slippery slope side of thirty. I assume she’s been around the block a time or two and should be able to give me a handle of what Burning Bush Boy was thinking.

“Rose Dawson,” she says. “Ms.”

We shake hands.

“I’m still a little shook up, Detective Flame. It’s so hard to believe.”

“I’m sure it was horrible, Ms. Dawson. Tell me what happened.”

She gathers her resources, smooths her skirt, finds her balance on the stool. “Sammy was a regular. A nice old guy. Some of our customers, they, well, they’re kind of bitter. Spout off about what’s gone wrong in their lives, what’s wrong with the world. Sammy, he comes into the café two, three times a week, always sweet as you please…except…today,” she says. “He’s down at the mouth, dragging his butt…I ask him, what’s bugging you, Sammy?”

“What’d he say?”

“It was so strange,” she says, tearing up. “He runs out of the café, goes across the street to the gas station, drenches himself, lights a match, screams… BREXIT and TRUMP. And he’s a fireball.”

I comfort her.

It’s just the beginning.

 

This is my contribution to Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction challenge #2: Burning Angel

 

fire