Three Fictions
Kim Chinquee

For the Moon

They'd gone tropical the last time. She took an Excedrin, wondered why, a reason, though it would take work. She got out her bags and rolled up the ramp and to the lobby, the room. The last time, he was waiting. He sat on his chair, inviting.
She put on her lipstick. There were mirrors and her wig was bedraggled. It had been months, though he always saying El and Oh and VEE EEE.
Hey, she said. He pulled and she wanted to look down, but she kissed him, saying Honey. She took off her shoes and pointed to the street, where people seemed busy. It was low, and she said, Baby, and lay herself on the spread, and he was next to her in an instant. He whispered this: I miss you. His tongue, and she watched her eyes.


Stop It

She'd caught herself swerving, so she opened windows, chanting. Awake, she said, and then there was an exit. A motel with a sign crooked: cheap. A man came in his pajamas, said cash was a fix. She couldn't find her card, but she'd been over, so it wasn't the worst. She gave him twenties and she heard the howl, getting her bags. She pulled the shades, heard a roar and passed out on the bedspread. Waking in sweat, to a world of nothing but a snow plow. The radio sirened, off.


It Could Have Been Serious

Her face went flush, and he said this was a hold-up. There wasn't even a register and he was sleeveless, reeling. She handed it over. She had no gun. There wasn't any system, though there were valuables. He took the cash box, running, and then she called the police and they questioned, were you? The owners were gone on vacation. She described, and he looked like her grandpa, dead now. Younger. They said, huh. One laughed and said it was a ghost town. She shook and they gave her some coffee. Took her back and she fell in with her cat, the fan twitched, her man a dick, fibbing about hickeys and a chick with a whip. Man, she said, closing up to a thunderbang.

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