By Foster Trecost

An empty café, that’s what he hoped to find, but he’d settle for mostly empty if it was quiet because that’s what he really wanted, a quiet café, and it seemed he’d found one, at least that’s how it looked from the street, but a steady hum coming from a fluorescent light crashed his ears like car horns and before the door could close, he backed out to look for another.

His search nearly ended when he came to a second offering but decided against going in. He just knew, you know, and shifted a few blocks over only to pass again on something equally unsuitable. It had a troublesome vibe, nothing he could name, but something. Unsure where to go, he circled back to the first, asked for a coffee, and carried it to a tiny table. 

The hum continued hum and kept his thoughts cornered in the present, a line he didn’t mind since recent regrets were fewer than those from his youth. Then something changed, not the hum but the way it settled over him, clearing a path to memories he’d forgotten or maybe just stopped thinking about, which is kind of the same thing but not really. He landed in the moment he pinched wings off insects to watch them scurry in circles, unsure where to go. He couldn’t comprehend why the hum would summon such a cruel memory, unaware it wasn’t random, but hints of similarity began to seep in. He left the café, left an untouched cup sitting on the tiny table, and reemerged in the early morning lack of light. A brief pause let the likeness fully form and when it did, he again scurred in circles, unsure where to go. And wondered who pinched off his wings but even more than that, he wondered why anyone would do such a thing.  

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Foster Trecost writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend to follow his attention span: sometimes short, sometimes very short. Recent work appears in Club Plum, Flash Boulevard, and Roi Fainéant. He lives near New Orleans with his wife and dog.