 |
| KATHY FISH lives and writes in Colorado. She has published flash fiction in Quick Fiction, Surgery of Modern Warfare, Pindeldyboz, Word Riot, Monkeybicycle, Gator Springs Gazette and elsewhere. She also has flash fiction forthcoming in Quintessence, SmokeLong Quarterly and FRiGG magazine. |
 |
| "you know her" Neal and his father sat opposite each other in the kitchen. The voice of Bobby Darin singing "Mack the Knife" flowed from the radio. Neal’s father folded his Register and tapped it on the edge of the table to the beat of the music. Neal kept his head buried in his cereal bowl. His long legs, in cut-offs, angled away from the table. "You got some jobs this morning?" his father said. "Yes." "Look at me." Neal scooped the last of his Cheerios into his mouth and put down his spoon. He ran his fingers over the scab on his elbow. He hated Bobby Darin. "Leave that alone," his father said. "Whose yards?" "Is Mom out of bed yet? I want to say good-bye." "Let her rest. I said whose yards." "Schmidt’s, Harvey’s," Neal dropped his bowl into the sink. "That woman’s." He moved to the screen door, imagined kicking it open, splintering the frame. His father pushed back his chair and turned to face Neal. "Don’t mumble. What was that last?" Outside, Neal’s brothers wrestled in the backyard. Their feet squeaked in the wet grass. Any second, Sam would deck Benj or Benj would deck Sam and he would have to go out there and pull them apart. "Look at me. What was that last?" Neal pressed his toes into the bottoms of his sneakers. He touched the rough edge of the door frame and focused on the hairs curling out the top of his father’s V-necked tee shirt. "That woman’s. You know. The one that moved in a couple months ago." Neal swallowed, met his father’s eyes. "I think you know her." His father got up and poured more coffee. The sun shot straight through the window onto his chest and arms. His biceps flexed and glowed. "Remember to clean the blades," he said. ### |
 |