The Last Conversation
by JS Apsley
JS Apsley is the pen name of a noir author from Glasgow, Scotland. He won the Ringwood Short Story Prize 2024 and has gone on to place over 50 stories around the world. His debut novel, “Storm Girl”, has been signed to an independent press and will be published in early 2027. To uncover more, see www.jsapsley.com.
She raised her eyes wearily from the book she loved so. God damn us all, she thought. Just one hour to sit myself in peace, that’s all I wanted. Gawking at the man who had approached her with a stare she felt would commandeer his unequivocal surrender, she was startled when he repeated his question.
“Would you mind some company?”
She had come to her favourite diner that day, to find it empty save the cook and waitress, both of whom clearly had nowhere else to be. She had come armed with her book, partly expecting to find them closed. She had come for an hour of peace, an hour with her beloved book. Her mobile phone was asleep in her pocket; it would not disturb her.
The waitress absently said she could have anything at all; it was on the house. She was content with a plate of hot toast, eggs and bacon, with a pot of tea. When the food arrived she ate leisurely, uninterrupted. After she had finished, she had wiped the crumbs from her hands and opened her book, content to sink into the bliss it could offer for what time she had left to her. To spend time with the characters was a gift; she loved them so. It had been her mother’s favourite book, so she and her sister had been introduced to it as children. Reading it now, so many years later, allowed her to bridge the chasm of absence which had opened up when her mother had died.
But now her plans to read peace were dashed. An oddball had appeared to pester her; a spanner in her works.
Do I mind, she thought? Of course I mind. I don’t want you sitting next to me or anywhere near me. I’ve got an hour at the most. Yet she remained civil. Her mother had raised her well.
“I don’t mean to be impolite, but as it happens I do mind. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the attention. I’d like just to be alone and read my book … I’m sure you understand.”
Having dropped what she hoped was a soothing rebuff, she studied her interloper.
The man was around her age and handsome, granted, but in a very unfamiliar fashion. His suit was ill-fitting; yet looked expensive. His skin was free of blemish, soft, well cared-for. His hair was combed and his nails immaculate. This was a man who had taken time with his appearance.
She thought she could understand that, on reflection. That was some credit in the bank, then.
He smiled at her, a goofy smile which despite her attempts at prickliness, she thought endearing. He’d been polite, she’d give him that too. But now, with the clock ticking, the presence of her strange admirer was an irritant. Her eyes flirted across to the waitress, who’d been trying to make calls to who-knows-who without success. That she was here at all might suggest she had no one to call; no one who would care at any rate.
The cook, through in the back somewhere, was making a racket with the pots and pans, cursing at will. Crockery skittered off the floor, possibly the wall. We’re all having a bad day, pal, she thought.
But then her eyes were drawn back to the strangely handsome man in the ill-fitting suit.
“Perhaps you’ll allow me to sit for a moment. To ask a question?” the man said softly. He seemed sincere; she found herself disarmed, though he need not know that. She heard her mother’s voice. Cards to your chest, dolly. She placed her book face down and took a sip of her tea.
“Okay, friend. I’ll play ball. You get to ask one question. I’m not agreeing I’ll answer.”
The man nodded and gently lowered himself into the seat facing her. He moved a basket of napkins and the salt and pepper cellars on the table, and she noted his hands were shaking. There was another crash from the kitchen and the man jumped a little. Perhaps he was nervous; or simply afraid. He raised his face to look at her, and he smiled his goofy smile.
“I noticed your book. To Kill a Mockingbird. Never got round to reading it myself, but the film’s a classic. Gregory Peck and all that. I saw you sitting here alone and I got to wondering … what made you choose to read this book, at this precise moment?”
The waitress had disappeared, and the combustible cook had gone silent. She was in an empty diner with an odd but curious character. His accent was unusual. English was not his first language, though his pronunciation was impeccable. Play it cool, dolly, she heard her mother say.
“It gives me an enormous sense of well-being,” she said, with a frisson of sarcasm. Her clipped banter seem to put him off, just as her steely stares had failed earlier in the conversation. That’s two bridges crossed.
“I wonder. If this is the last book you read, does that … elevate the joy you take from it?” he asked, springing her from reverie.
“I suppose. This is my sixth go-through. It’s special to me. It was … it was my mum’s favourite. I like to read it because I love it, but also to remind me of her. Now, friend, I’ve just little time left to do so, and that was your second question.”
“It was. I thought I’d take my chances, you seemed friendly enough. You know, just to make some conversation as people do,” the man said absently. Thanking her, he left her booth with a courteous nod, and walked to the window, placing his hand on the glass.
She wondered if he was just another freak loose on the streets. Perhaps it was to be expected; there had been a lot of that sort of thing recently. But there was a somehow inevitable sadness behind that goofy smile; a pain hidden underneath that extra-large suit. She realised he had beguiled her, charmed her, even. She wondered if that had been his intention after all. Her mother had always said to keep her attractions close to your chest. Make them wait, she would say, you’re worth it, dolly.
‘What’s the deal here pal? You looking for women to chat up?”
The man turned back from the window of the diner. She saw that the light of the late afternoon rested upon his face like a mask. It was an unnatural light.
The bell above the front door pinged solemnly; the waitress had wandered outside and was walking past the window aimlessly, as if lost. The woman watched the waitress toss her phone to the ground, uncaring. Although the roadway had been quiet since late morning, it was still so odd to see no cars on a street normally bubbling with hubbub. Looking further out, the woman noticed a couple walking with a young girl, swinging her between them.
The child’s laugh was the only noise she could hear from the outside world. She took some slither of joy from the girls’ delight. The girl’s parents seemed to laugh with her, though it may not have been laugher at all, but something else entirely. Still so quiet, she thought. So terribly quiet.
Focusing inside the diner again, she realised the man in the ill-fitting suit was upset with her accusation.
“Not at all. I’m not like … that’s not me. You looked friendly, that’s all. I thought I’d ask about your book.” The man straightened out his suit, nervously placing his hands in each of the inside and outside pockets in turn. The suit was really far too big for him. He caught the look of curiosity in her eyes.
“It was my fathers,” he confirmed.
“The suit I mean. Thought it would be somehow fitting to wear it today. You know?”
“I know, I think. I did wonder. It doesn’t really fit you at all.”
He smiled and patted at the pockets again.
His hand was now in the inside pocket, holding something. He paused that way as they studied each other, and she was reminded of Napoleon. Inside the jacket pocket, the man’s hand caressed a well-worn note. He produced it.
She watched him read it, and saw his eyes redden as he contemplated whether to tell her about it.
“Care to share?” she ventured. Her intrigue had gone up a notch.
“Please,” he replied.
He took his seat again, and cleared his throat. There was a crash from the kitchen. The cook staggered in from behind the servery. He was swilling a bottle of whisky in one hand, and clutching another. Having polished off the first, he opened the second and drained the contents. He stared at the two diners; he did not see them. His eyes were bloodshot and vacant. He dropped to one knee, then collapsed, unconscious.
“Would you care to read it for me, aloud I mean? It’s a note from my father,” the man asked, ignoring the stricken cook. “I’d like someone else to read it.”
She thought for a moment. She laid To Kill a Mockingbird down on the table, caressing the scarred spine. Her thoughts turned briefly to her younger sister, who loved the book as much as she. But her sister was thousands of miles away, and would be with her children. Her hand was beginning to look like her mother’s. She held it out, to receive the man’s note. He passed it, softly. The woman read it for him.
“Hello Son. I know you’ll get round to checking this suit when I’m gone. I’m afraid you won’t find any money. I’m broke from the medical bills, and this bastard cancer has me beat. We gave it a good run though, didn’t we? When you find this, please know I don’t want you to dwell. I reckon I’ve kept my nose out of trouble enough to book a ticket to meet that wise old feller up in the sky somewhere. I’ll see your mom again, and Jessie. Maybe it’ll all be like a dream, and when I wake up, you and I will head off to the creek to go fishing. That’d be about the best son, if we could go fishing one last time. You’ve been a wonderful son. I love you so very much.”
The last part took her breath away. She looked at him, and found she saw him anew. He was wearing his father’s suit to honour him, to remember him. He was a wonderful son. “Who’s Jessie?” she asked.
“My sister. She died when I was ten or so. Car wreck.”
“Sorry to hear it. What a lovely note from your father. I hope he fitted his suit better than you do, friend,” she said, goading a gentle laugh from her table companion.
“When did he pass?” she asked.
“Oh, around a year ago. I found the note not long after. I decided to keep the suit that it came with. I think he got married to my mother in this suit. And now it belongs to me. I guess it’s up to us to be the stewards of our parent’s stories. After their gone, I mean.”
She knew exactly what she meant. She lifted her book, her most treasured possession, and offered it to him. He took it with a nod, and flicked through the pages.
“I’m guessing you don’t have a kid out there, stewarding your story,” she asked bluntly.
He shook his head, gently. His eyes watered; she held his hand and nodded back at him in silent accord. She realised it was her turn to share with her new friend.
“My mother and I were very close. But at the end, she barely knew me. About a week before she passed I found her sitting in the care home like a ghost, holding her book, this book. She wasn’t in a fit state to read it, but she recognised the cover. She knew what it was. She looked at me and said, ‘It’s a Sin’. One of the nurses thought it was a comment on her predicament. I knew better. She was quoting the book, holding it up like a hook to catch herself on before she slipped to the darker waters. It was the last thing I heard her say.”
The man placed the book back down, respectfully.
“So here we both are. You with your mother’s book, and I with my father’s suit. I think they’d both be pleased with us, don’t you?” he asked. “I’m happy, to remember them now, to have this chance to think of why we loved them.”
She thought back to a trip to a funfair with her mum and dad. She could see her father shooting at targets. He had been hopeless, laughing at his own uselessness with the rifle. Her mother took up the rifle and shot every target. She picked a toy bear, and passed it to her dad. They had laughed so much, the three of them.
“I guess I’m happy too,” she said. Looking at the man, she realised he had been a gift. He had reminded her to cherish the small things: the small things which are guarded jealously in our secret hearts. Her mother’s love for books and reading was now her own, and that was something. It was something. It was these small things that kept those we’d lost anchored to us. Tethered in time, their story became our story, and helped us accept the inevitability of mortality. It was the little things, those tangible conceits and contrivances, which helped us reach the truth of Feeble’s wisdom: that we each owe a death.
The diner was suddenly scorched in a sear of white light. They stood, shaking, and scrambled to the window, screening their eyes through their fingers. They both knew, each of them, that this would be their last conversation.
It had been a worthy one.
Though they bore no deep affection for each other, they held hands as the intensity of the light pained their eyes, and the windows of the diner began to rattle. The man straightened out his suit, and reached into one of the pockets with his free hand, where his fingers found a fish-hook.
The woman clutched the book to her bosom.
After all, it was the little things.
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