Prompt: Pop
Jean-Pierre, Suzanne, Jim
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Pop is a champagne cork flying; clink three glasses in elderly hands that make a silent toast. (Here's to a good run.)
They savour each sip, prolonging the end but, eventually, they have to go.
The staff-room is barren, the classrooms stripped of charts and posters, and the main doors gape open, ushering them into the gathering darkness. Rearview mirrors catch lined faces and sad smiles, armfuls of chemistry sets and sweater vests.
He'll retire. She'll teach elsewhere.
And he's already filing Kadic under his list of previous jobs, the ones he'd rather not talk about.
(Talking won't do it justice.)
