This is my entry for the Platform Campaign Flash Fiction challenge.. somewhat hurried to make deadline!
Waiting.
The door swung open. The receptionist had returned and they all looked up.
She glanced at the mechanical flip-ticker on the wall. Marcus stood and stretched. He felt the others watch him make his way to her. Jealous.
He handed her his ticket. It was damp and creased from an age of holding and folding.
She unfurled it. Long, slender fingers. “This way, then,” she said.
Marcus, and a floral fragrance, trailed her along a short grey-painted corridor. She opened a door, and nodded to him. He considered life resumed. A rain soaked pavement.
“You’ll need this.” She handed him a blue ticket stamped Y90.
He took it, and stepped in.
Rows of seats. No windows. Waiting people took him in, and looked away. A ticker on the wall read A15.
He turned to explain she’d made a mistake. To protest. To complain, but the doorway was empty.
He stepped over outstretched legs, and around bags and found an empty seat beside a woman in an ultramarine trouser suit. As he sat, a vague memory of somewhere else faded, along with the scent of lavender. He settled down to wait.
The door swung shut.
