a conversation between two city lovers | literary fiction

A hungover writer in Whitechapel calls the woman who knows him too well. Sharp, funny, and honest — flash fiction set in the East End of London.

‘When you say it’s going to happen now, when exactly do you mean?’ he said.

‘That’s a line from The Smiths,’ she replied.

‘Care to name the song?’

‘I don’t have time for this.’

‘Nope. Try again.’

She hung up. He stood up from a springless mattress that left red marks on his milk skin as though he had measles. In a room with sparse objects: an oak wooden draw…