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She stuffed his things into a garbage bag like women do after a bad break-up. And now the bag was in the trunk. She took a sip every time she passed a crow on a fence, singing along to Easy 101 and making plans. She'd sit on the aisle, in the last pew. She'd bought a hat with a veil and the woman in the store said she looked like Jackie O. Maybe she would leave his things on his doorstep, for the wife. A new terrible song came on and she screamed out the window, her voice trailing like smoke. |
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You were taking me to the specialist, but we had to take the train. I don't remember the cab ride, but I remember the walk from the parking lot to the station. You held my arm. I paused after each step, like a bride. The sun hurt my eyes. There was frost on the railing and I thought I might fall. You were telling me about a film, your voice steady and quiet. You wanted a coffee. Squeezed my hand and left me standing there. The ticket seller waved me forward. He asked our destination. I felt dizzy and couldn't speak. You said you would be right back. I stumbled an answer. The ticket seller pushed change under the glass. Later, I must have fainted. I was on the floor, in the aisle. You were giving me water from a plastic cup. A bunch of school kids crowded the car. They stopped and stared. I was aware of how I must have looked. An old woman sprawled in a tracksuit, two sizes too big for her. Sharp-boned ankles and spangled ballet slippers. You were carrying me, then, and my eyes were open, but I was struck by how dim it was. We were moving away from the cars and the school kids and past the woman tying her shoelace and the man reading the Times. And after forever, we broke the surface and the sun was in my eyes again and you laughed and I gulped and gulped the air like a distance swimmer, hungry. |
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KATHY FISH's stories are published or forthcoming in Mississippi Review, Indiana Review, Denver Quarterly, New South, Quick Fiction and elsewhere. A collection of her work is available from Rose Metal Press in a book entitled A Peculiar Feeling of Restlessness: Four Chapbooks of Short Short Fiction by Four Women.. |
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