Gail, Gil, Gull
By Chris Cottom
Listen to Chris read this story:
Gail
Our second date is a ‘back to nature’ break. I’d imagined getting our kit off on a sun-soaked beach in Skiathos or Sardinia, and misunderstood his reference to binoculars and shags. Turns out Gil’s idea of a dirty weekend involves uncomfortable positions on a Cardiganshire cliff-top, whispering ‘shearwater’ or ‘red-billed chough’. Talking of cardigans, it’s freezing.
Gil
She thought she’d ‘have a look around the shops.’ I told her there was a Spar at the petrol station, nine miles as the crow flies. She’d winked at dinner, wanting to skip dessert. When I explained the hotel was renowned for its tiramisu, her serving suggestion made me blush. I’m not sure Gail appreciates golden-hair lichen or the call of a kittiwake. When I mentioned that puffins mate for life, she replied, ‘Boring little buggers, aren’t they?’
Gull
There’s a couple tramping the headland; he’s bristling with tripods and purpose, she’s wearing sandals and a sulk. It’s Springwatch meets Love Island. I might try and shit in his eye; that’d be one for his notebook. Looks like they’re arguing. I’d take a closer look but I need to snatch a spot of lunch from some kiddy’s hand. When I glide past later, there’s a seal floating in the water. Except it’s wearing camo pants. And Miss Pouty is nowhere to be seen.
Chris Cottom has spent the better half of his life near Macclesfield, England. He’s won flash or micro competitions with 3 Minute Arts, Allingham Festival, Cranked Anvil, Free Flash Fiction, Hysteria, National Flash Fiction Day NZ, On The Premises, Pokrass Prompts, Retreat West, Secret Attic, Shooter Flash, SWLF, The Phare, and WestWord. He’s packed Christmas hampers in a Harrods basement, sold airtime for Radio Luxembourg, and served a twelve-year stretch as an insurance copywriter. He liked the writing job best.
Find him on X at @chris_cottom1