Seven brief fictions, if they have enough narrative to be called that.
I hadn’t trimmed my beard or hair for six months. A woman walked up to me on the street and barked in my face — r-r-rarf! arf! — then rejoined her laughing friends.
I had kissed her once in a rose garden.
His father, who had buried both parents and a sister without a tear, cried for hours when his favorite cartoonist died.
The stripper smells of cotton candy and sweat. She whispers something in your ear. You catch the word “death.”
He went barefoot only in bed and the shower; she danced naked on the balcony. Their friends knew the marriage was doomed, and hung back from the impending carnage.
Finding themselves isolated, they clung to one another. He forced himself to wear sandals without socks. She learned to love the drag of fabric during sex.
Despite teaching geology, he still expects limestone to taste like limes.
She had learned to sleep through the gunshots, choppers and sirens of her new neighborhood, but would often lie awake until morning waiting for the next yip from the neighbor’s spaniel.
Once, she could name the seven races of ETs, the ten pre-human civilizations, and the nineteen ranks of demons. Her faith wandered off when she forgot to feed it. Now that she was alone again, it came nosing at the door.