Three Fictions
Shelly Rae Rich

The Day We Met

He was scared.

I thought I would die.
Metal, like movies, tinny like paint. My kid's room. Cold like the fridge. When I go home and press my head against it, before he starts questions.
The click made me nervous. It was just me. More bargaining. Me.
I have eyes. My only tool at the moment and I know, they talk. He seems very sad.


So much can be done if you pretend you don't know the rules. We'd go to department stores, he preferred Daffy's. "Not as much," he said while rubbing his thumb against his forefingers.
I'd get shoes, then go look for outfits to match.
He walked into the dressing room with me, and nobody stopped him.

Coffee House

I loved his skin, his accent.
He loved to order Macchiato and say, "You know," point to me then at his chest, press his hands together, "foam, bean?" And he laughed.