Two Fictions
Meg Pokrass


Before the dessert cart comes, he ticks the other tables with his eyes. Says all the men are looking at her.
"They aren't. You're crazy," she says, the words smashing together in her mouth, sourdough bread and hand-whipped butter. She's ruined this before.
He straightens his collar, flicks his bangs, smiles down at the starched tablecloth. Signals the waiter with his hand.


Mom wasn't sunburned anymore, but she stopped taking walks. "Them's small potatoes." She joined a gym called "Liberty Body". Her membership card pictured her face on the Statue of Liberty's body. She packed, then unpacked, a suitcase. I asked if I could come, wherever she was headed. Crows feet skated around her eyes. "Your hair's tangled again." Her comb started in on my knots from the back. The air was perfect. Other moms walked dogs, like she used to when dad lived here. They looked small and bright, like they knew where they were going.