Reverse Gear – By Richard Grossman
Flash Fiction / March 1, 2009

I didn’t see the purse fall, just heard the sound. A second later we were both on hands and knees. No Saturday night special. No makeup. Not much of anything except a roll of bills. I had her driver’s license. 26 Eastbrook Road. You know where that is? Our eyes locked. Hazel eyes, gold flecks. Something else as well. Yes, I know where that is. She put the bottle of aspirin back on the shelf, looked at me again. Thanks. That was very kind. She turned and half waved. Was there a message in that? I followed her from the store not knowing why. It was easy to keep a hundred yards behind, which was just as well. I had no idea why I was doing this. Twice I almost turned off. Could I knock at 26 Eastbrook, Excuse me, I helped you when your purse fell, I think I love you. Headline: Amorous Lunatic Arrested in Suburbs. A garage double door rose as she approached 26 Eastbrook, one of a series of matching houses optimistically called garrison colonials. The door closed with similar automation as I parked across the street. A passage connected the garage to the main part…