Flash Fiction from the Saturday Shed.

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Fred shut the windows and drew the curtains, but the sound of next door’s party still thundered around the room.

“Bloody kids,” he muttered as he slid under the duvet.

Joan appeared in the doorway. “You’re only young once, darling. And they did give us plenty of warning.”

“When did they get so loud?” grumbled Fred. “I’m sure we were never that annoying when we were teenagers.”

“I think we were,” Joan smiled. “Remember the night we met?”

“That was over fifty years ago. But how could I forget?” Fred tucked his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. “Me and my mates were passing by, we heard the music—”

“Courtesy of my old Dansette record player.” Joan kicked off her slippers.

“And we snuck in the back door.”

“Where my then-boyfriend tried to throw you out.”

“But someone locked him in the kitchen cupboard,” Fred laughed at the memory.

“That was my sister,” Joan admitted. “And it was her fault what happened next.”

“She winked and gave me a glass of cider,” said Fred. “Strong enough to strip paint.” He sniffed as if he could still smell the tart aroma of fermenting apples. “And you and I ended up in a bedroom, snogging under a pile of coats and jackets.”

“Glory days,” said Joan, draping her dressing gown over the foot of the bed. “No point trying to sleep. We might as well read.” She picked up a Jilly Cooper paperback.

“I have a better idea.” Fred got up and padded out of the room. He returned five minutes later with a wicked grin, an armful of coats and two cans of Blackthorn. “Fancy reliving the past?”

“And we can go all the way tonight!” The book and Joan’s nightdress hit the floor.