portion of the artwork for Kathy Fish's story

Kathy Fish

Rick said his old Grenada was mine if I could jumpstart it. Said, Good luck, as he handed over the cables. We dated for three years. Broke up last week, after a party. The police found him naked and singing loudly on top of the old Black’s department store. At that point I’d had enough. My friend Pansy drove me over to his house so I could use her battery for the jump.

There was a bowl of bread dough rising in a sunny corner and the whole place smelled of yeast. Rick was slicing mushrooms thin as petals with a paring knife. He was always at his most attractive when he was cooking. His pit bull, Magnum, shuffled around, bumping into things. He plopped down in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Pansy said, “The kind thing to do would be to put this animal down.” She knelt and lay her hand on his abdomen. “His bowels are distended.”

Rick wiped his hand on a dishtowel. “So the car probably needs new tires. The horn doesn’t work. Passenger side door can only be opened from the outside.”

I’d spent my last dime bailing him out of jail. I’d ridden in it a few times. I knew it was a piece of crap, but the car was payback.

Pansy stood, eyeing Rick, “You don’t like me much, do you?”

“You stole my girlfriend,” he said.

Rick’s car was parked on the grass. Pansy eased her car over the curb and parked alongside it. I let her hook up the cables and I slid into Rick’s Grenada. She started her car. I waited a bit, then turned the key. Click, click, click. I looked over at her, shrugged.

“Try again,” she called over to me.

I turned the key. The engine roared.

We had to step over Magnum who was now lying on the front porch, his eyes closed. Rick signed over the registration and handed it to me.

Pansy folded her arms. “You should check his pulse.”

Something simmered on the stove. A sauce, with mushrooms, onions, and butter. I wanted a taste.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 45 | Spring 2015