Flash Fiction by Dan Crawley

LAS CRUCES  

Leaving the Mexican restaurant after a long lunch, Lea pushed the heavy wooden door wide open.

Brent followed, saying, “All that I mentioned earlier, I’m just trying to…I want to help you.”

“New subject,” Lea said. “I think those people are wasted.”  

Ahead on the sidewalk staggered another couple. They clutched each other as if traversing an uneven rock jetty, losing the battle against a wicked gale. Lea noticed a purple curl poking out from the black ski cap on the man’s head. The woman didn’t seem to have much hair under her ball cap.  

“Timber,” Brent said.  

The woman swayed, losing her grip on her partner’s elbow. He buckled, too, and all of his interior scaffolding seemed to vanish. The woman ended up between two barrel cacti, sprawled on the pink gravel lining the sidewalk. The man sat…