Eddie drove down the main road, music playing loud. He was sure he was the only guy in Ayrshire playing 90s rock down the back roads.
Definitely the only one still using CDs.
What was it they called his favourite bands now?
Classic rock.
Fuck off.
Jean had been saying,
“Why not just go the whole way and get it on cassette?
Get with the times.”
Cheeky.
Somehow her Idlewild t-shirt still fit.
When he left she was ironing her uniform.
Humming along to some pop song.
He’d be able to pick her up in the morning.
He checked the app.
No bookings.
He tapped his fingers as the band hit the groove.
The car smelt like perfume and aftershave, and sweat and booze.
The last couple had started doing a line in the backseat. He’d punted them out on the corner.
He drove and drove.
Through the streets.
The little villages.
Five houses and a pub.
Back into town.
The old pub. Where they used to jam.
Bass.
Guitar.
Drums.
The music going round and round.
He switched off the app.
Leaned back into the seat.
He sang.
He laughed.
Drove past the crowds outside the pub.
Stopped and got some chips.
Sat down by the shore.
Till the sun came up.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 