Ripple Fish
By Beth Sherman
The Cloud Watchers Appreciation Club met every Saturday at noon, weather permitting, in the field behind Rite Aid in Metuchen, New Jersey. There were three members: Bonnie, Karl – the man she’d met on OkCupid six months ago – and his schnauzer, Smooches. They’d gone on half a date and although they weren’t aligned romantically, they decided cloud-ship would be nice.
Bonnie loved the fluffy cottony ones.
Cumulus, Karl always corrected.
He was a retired professor – English, not Meteorology – who liked to show off his vast store of knowledge.
Bonnie called the cumulus clouds clumpies, just not in front of Karl.
She had names for different kinds – woolies, streak feathers, ripple fish – that sounded nicer than what they were actually called.
You know what I hate? Karl asked.
Blue-sky thinking?
They’d had many conversations about how some clouds were unfairly maligned, viewed as harbingers of rain, even ill omens. They both agreed that cloudless equaled boring in the long run.
Yes, said Karl, but I also hate how people insist on seeing shapes up there.
That didn’t bother Bonnie. She loved how quickly clouds moved. How different they were. How they lifted her away from the duller parts of life.
Smooches barked and ate another piece of seed-less watermelon Bonnie had brought to feed the dog.
I don’t mind, Bonnie said. See, that one looks like a sprig of cauliflower.
Maybe. But why must we recognize beauty to appreciate it?
Bonnie shrugged. Karl had brought a big checked picnic blanket and they lay on their backs, gazing skyward. Hawks drifting overhead probably thought they were a couple. Folks heading to the Rite Aid parking lot probably thought so too. Why hadn’t it worked with Karl? Because he was smarter? No, Bonnie reminded herself, because he was married. After she Googled him in the middle of their coffee date, she’d confronted Karl, who admitted he was taken, but would love to stay in touch.
He kept texting and calling and their conversations lasted for hours at a time and Bonnie found herself thinking about him at work and while she was on the Stairmaster and when she was in the shower and she only had one other friend, who’d moved to Cleveland recently, so she figured what’s the harm of meeting once a week?
Is your wife a cloud lover, too?
She’d never asked Karl about his wife, but there were no hard and fast rules at the CWAC.
She never looks up, Karl said.
He sounded so sad that Bonnie reached over and guided his hand to her right breast. It had been two years since her husband died. Every day she told herself the same thing.
Do you think it’s better to be lonely than dead? she asked Karl, wanting a second opinion. His fingers were tracing spirals on her dress. It was oddly pleasant, like entering a swimming pool and finding the water is just the right temperature.
Depends on the day.
Her whole body had melted into the grass. She felt her smile stretch toward her ears.
What about now?
Now is perfection. Now is amazing.
Above them, patchy clouds crisscrossed the blue.
Beth Sherman is the author of the novella-in-flash, How to Get There from Here (Ad Hoc Fiction). She has had more than 250 stories featured in literary journals, including Ghost Parachute, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and Smokelong Quarterly, where she’s a Submissions Editor. Her work appears in Best Microfiction 2024 and 2026 and Best Small Fictions 2025. The author of five mystery novels, she can be reached on social media @bsherm36.
