An Old Flame

"Coke" I ordered, scanning the room. A lively place,the Kingsmen, with a large wooden statue of a battle-ready archer incongruously stationed over by the wall. Many people sat chatting in small groups, but on one table a clutter of motorcycle paraphernalia watched over by a lone biker playing the bandit, his friends outside having a cig. My eyes were drawn to one particular helmet.

"It can't be," I gasped. The unmistakable custom-painted helmet of my old flame Jeff Goldstein. My heart began to race as my mind flashed back images of Jeff on his chopper.

I rifled through my bag and pulled out a pen and crumpled paper. Searching for inspiration my eyes alighted on the desultory archer. The table opposite him was vacant. I quickly scribbled a note.

Want to plough the furrow
follow the arrow

Well, poetry was never my thing, and it was a little forward, but, hey, this is the age of girl power, right.

I slipped the note under the helmet, hastily retreating to the table

The bikers returned and stood engaged in hearty conversation. Using my phone as a cover I stole glances, trying to spot Jeff when, to my horror, the shortest, fattest, ugliest one reached for the helmet.

"Oh my God," I glanced at the archer pointing straight at me, and back at the balding troll bending to pick up the note.

I leapt to my feet and hoisted the statue around thirty degrees so his arrow pointed at the two innocent elderly ladies at the table in front. Then returning the bartenders stern gaze with a little wave I curled into my seat and scrutinised my texts with renewed intensity.

I don't know what else happened that night but I swear on the way home I passed two chopper motorcycles carrying two very high-spirited elderly ladies pillion.