Suspense Short Story – Photographic Memory
Photo credit: keyseeker from morguefile.com
He was one of those guys who you recognize at once, but can’t place them exactly. And then it leaves a sour feeling in your mouth. He’d spotted me too, I could see that. Walking over to where I sat with a scotch in my hand, he started with the age-old line.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” He reeked of whiskey.
I stared at him, trying my hardest to put a name to the face. I was sure I’d seen his freckled face countless times, but the recognition still eluded me.
“Man, I-I know you from sss-somewhere,” he repeated, slurring worse.
I didn’t reply. Sometimes, it is better to keep your mouth shut and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.
“Hey bartender!” he called out, his attention shifting from me. “Another one!”
“Sure thing, Mr. Miller,” the bartender smiled his please-tip-me smile.
That’s when it hit me. Miller. Alice Miller. The girl I had an affair with. She kept a framed photograph of herself and her husband on the bedside table. That’s where I recognized him from. My girlfriend’s husband! Sh*t!
“You know, I’m sure as hell I know you,” he repeated yet again. I didn’t know where from he could recognize me. I’d never met him and the affair was top secret. Even my wife didn’t suspect. Did Alice tell him?
“I think you’re mistaken,” I answered politely, offering an uneasy smile. Thankful for the darkness in the bar, I finished my drink, paid and stood up. I was almost at the door when he opened his mouth again.
“I remember you!” he cried out suddenly and the blood I my veins froze. “I remember you in a red polo shirt and this stupid cowboy hat!”
Sighing, I thanked my stars. At least he doesn’t recognize me.
A moment later, I stopped dead in my track.
Red polo shirt, cowboy hat. There was only one such photo of me.
On my bedside table!
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AUTHOR’S NOTE:
The last line was the inspiration. The suspense reaches the climax and there is some humor… Do leave a comment. I’d like to know what my readers think.
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