THRICE Fiction Apr. 2014 - Page 28

Spitting Out S Between the Pines Jill Owen he was sitting opposite him. Yellow top with some sort of bird on it — he couldn’t quite make it out without his glasses on, and he didn’t want to get them out. Probably kingfishers. Or hummingbirds. The train rattled on through Turnpike Lane, Manor House. He should say something to her, he announced silently to the disapproving audience inside his head. But what could he say that would grab her attention, make her feel that there was some connection worth exploring? In a moment of inspiration, he glanced down and pulled out the bag of cherries from his briefcase. He’d bought them from the market for the office receptionist, who he’d upset the day before. Not intentionally, but he’d started off with some jokey comment abou Ё