'Spilled' by Lisa Lermer Weber

It was 5 p.m. but she didn't want to go home. She didn't want to see the emptiness in his eyes when he looked at her, or feel the vastness of the space between them. Instead, she went to a bar down the street from the office. It was a Thursday and the bar was quickly filling up. She found an empty table in the back and ordered a glass of whiskey. As she thought about him and wondered what she'd done wrong, two attractive young women sat down at the table next to her. They ordered some wine and dove into conversation.

"So, what's this news you wanted to share?"

"You know that guy I've been telling you about?"

"The jogger you met in the park? Aaron?"

"Eric. Well, I think he's ready to get serious."

"I thought he was living with someone."

"Yes but he hasn't been happy for a long time and he's finally going to move out."

"Really? Poor girl."

"Well, she only has herself to blame. She's always working. And she's super needy."

The waiter brought over two glasses of wine.

"Would you ladies like anything else?"

"No, thank you."

"Ok, well enjoy."

The two women took sips from their wine glasses. They didn't notice who sat at the table next to them. They didn't see her knock over her glass as she reached to take her wallet out of her purse. They didn't see her quickly wipe up the spill and toss some money on the table before rushing to the door.

As she walked to her car, she felt her phone buzz and took it out of her purse. It was a text from Eric.

"We need to talk."

'Overhead at the Airport' by Lara Frankena

“You don’t want to get into an argument with me … how would you feel if the plane crashed?”

“Hello?”

“Hello?”

'On Annie’s Birthday' by Faye Brinsmead

The Kedgley twins swim through my summer memories. Pansies stretched over meagre buttocks, copper-wire arms smacking green water which, from my observation post, had grown a quivering skin. Inside our beach house, the same weather as at home: cold fronts, storms. After breakfast, I escaped to the cliff to read Agatha Christies, feet dangling over the ocean pool.

Metal clanged, thongs slupped across tiles. I watched them tuck grey frizz into caps, sidle in, wobbly as baby giraffes.

They swam in silence. Except once.

Annie’d be 70 today, Jean said between laps.

Yep, Moira said.

They set off again, limbs ploughing the sparkling soil.

Always wondered about it, Jean said.

You weren’t there, Moira said. Chasing that no-good feller.

You may as well not’ve been, Jean said. Nose in a book.

I saw something, Moira said.

You tell me 55 years later? Jean said.

You never asked, Moira said.

At that, Appointment with Death lost its allure. I waited for their fingers to touch paint-blistered coping.

I was rereading Anna Karenina, Moira said. Coming up to the train scene.

Where she throws herself on the tracks? Jean said.

Yep, Moira said. I took a breather. Dad was fishing off the pier. Mum and Ralph building sandcastles. No Annie. Dad had picked on her that morning. Said she looked lumpy in her new bathers. She cried, dug a big hole. I looked down it. Course she wasn’t there. Maybe she’s in the water, I thought. 

She couldn’t swim, Jean said.

She wasn’t in the shallows, Moira said. Way out, past the pier, I saw a blob. Purple, like her bathers. A pink arm, waving. 

Waving for help? Jean said.

Or waving goodbye, Moira said. I couldn’t tell.

When they dragged themselves out of the water, they had grown a century older.