Liz Tyner - Saying I Do To The Scoundrel

The comfort of the tavern rested in its sameness. Even if the tavern closed, two more would take its place. He’d always have a bottle to hold him.

He took a coin from his pocket and flipped it up. He grabbed it from the air, slapping it on to the back of his hand, covering it with his palm. Heads, he’d kidnap her. Tails, he’d change his lodgings and forget he’d ever viewed her treacherous—innocent face.

He remembered her with such clarity it seized his thoughts. When her lashes flickered, it was as if feathery fans fluttered above her eyes.

He wondered how she looked when she laughed. If her chin quivered? If she tilted her head, or blushed?

But most of all, he wanted to see the hair she hid under a mountainous hat from a crazed milliner.

It was not right to think so. Not right to think of another woman besides Mary.

He stood there, hand covering the coin.

He slowly moved his palm away and squinted. Tails. Was it tails to take her, or tails to leave her be? He took the coin in his right fist and with his left, backhanded the empty brandy bottle hard enough so the glass smashed into the wall.

He took a breath and then flipped the coin again.

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