Flash Fiction Friday
There’s My Hand, There’s My Heart ❤️
by Tommy Kennedy IV

Walking lazily along the beach at Porthmeor in St Ives, soft sand kissed my feet.
The salty breeze tangled my hair and woke up the old mischief inside me.

Tonight, I’d outsmart my latest young gigolo. Fingers crossed.
He was rum, dim, and perfect for my plans.

With a fresh wax and hair done to kill, I looked irresistible.
The boy had no idea what kind of woman he’d picked up.

Then he arrived — roaring up on a bright blue Harley, engine purring like a beast.
His grin flashed, all teeth and arrogance, daring me to resist.

I swung my leg over the bike, backpack biting my shoulders.
My eyes stayed on his thighs — tanned, tight, dangerous.
He revved the throttle and we flew, hair whipping wild, sea air stinging sweet.

We tore through St Ives, past cottages and scowling locals who hated Emmetts in summer.
The sea air and flowers mixed like sin and Sunday morning.
The Harley weaved through traffic, each turn feeding my freedom.

The road hugged the cliffs. Waves smashed below.
The roar of the engine echoed off the rocks — wild, alive.
I felt the wind pull at my clothes and thought, this is what living feels like.

Through fishing villages we flew.
Painted boats rocked in the sun, old men frowned, kids pointed.
They knew what we were — trouble with an engine.

By the time we reached Polperro, I felt drunk on life.
We parked up, legs still tingling from the vibration.
Jacques — twenty-one, from Paris, a petty crook turned gigolo — thought he was the hunter.
He wasn’t.

We walked to the harbour hotel. Glasses clinked, waves slapped the wall.
The town smelled of salt and fried fish.
He paid for the room, wallet stuffed with notes from other women.
Believed in “speculate to accumulate”. Silly boy.

Upstairs he kissed my neck and undressed me with the confidence of youth.
Hours later I lay there, sore, satisfied, and half-asleep —
until I heard him at my handbag.

I smiled in the dark. Nothing in there worth stealing.
A single cough made him freeze. He climbed back into bed, pretending nothing had happened.
Silly boy.

Next day, sunshine and hangovers.
We hired a boat, drifted under a lemon sky.
My skirt matched it, showing off a tan that lied better than any passport.
He thought I was thirty-nine.
I laughed. A lady never tells.

That night the flirting turned wicked.
Jacques thought he was charming me.
I showed him a fake photo — me with a winning lottery ticket.
Said I was rich, generous, bored.

He took the bait like a carp on a Sunday line.
I spoke of London flats and Savile Row suits.
He gave me his bank details, eyes shining with greed.

The next morning, he rode me to Newquay Airport like a loyal dog.
I kissed him goodbye, flashed my sweetest smile —
and lifted his fat wallet right from his shorts pocket.
He didn’t feel a thing.

I promised to send tickets and ten grand when I got home.
He rode off dreaming. I laughed until I cried.

On the plane, I counted the notes.
The paper was crisp, the sound beautiful.
I tossed his empty wallet and my SIM card into separate bins.
The old Holloway lessons came flooding back.
Boys like Jacques never learn.

As the plane lifted, I thought about the Harley, the cliffs, and the rush.
London would be waiting — and another story, another fool.

Can’t wait to tell the girls.
They’ll call me mad.
But they’ll laugh their heads off.


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