Quiz Night

Every Thursday, our pub quiz team plays one person short. She just changed the team name.

We were "Quizzy Rascals." Her idea. I thought it was cringe. She said, "It's iconic." Her name was Lottie. Eighteen months, every Thursday at The Crown, a pint of cider for her and a half for me, because I'm weak. She knew geography and history. I knew music and film. Together, we were unstoppable. We won a £30 bar tab once and spent it on chips.

We broke up in August. Clean, quiet. Neither of us went back to the pub.

But my mate Sam dragged me last week. "Mate, it's a quiz. Not a funeral." So I went. Sat at the back. Watched the leaderboard.

And there, in fourth place, sat a team name. "Quizzy Rascals (1)."

One. Just one person.

I stared at it. Of course she's here. I looked around. She was in a corner booth, alone, pen in hand, hair in a messy bun. Frowning at the answer sheet.

The music round started. I felt my heart drop. Five questions. She was dying.

At the break, the quizmaster read the answer sheets. I watched her hand in hers. A minute later, it was passed back. Sam, who'd been closer, leaned over.

"Mate," he whispered. "Look at the music section."

Five blank answers.

And at the bottom of the page, small, in her handwriting.

"Ask Dan."

She'd come every week for months.

Leaving the same five answers blank.