The Moon's Choice

notice it

as nothing remarkable about it. Over the years I had grown accustomed both to the attention and to the city itself-to its wet streets in the evening, the warm glow of small res-ta

ound the evening traffic, which shop sold decent bread, and where not to go after three on a Saturday unless I wanted to spend half my l

gan noticing the strange lo

shop, near a car park, at a crossing-and for a moment seemed to drop out of their own life. They weren't asses

g else. Then it began to irritate me. That ev

it might once have had. So, before leaving the of-fice, I ordered dinner from one of the most popular places near the city center and stopped to pick it up on m

asphalt, and the few people still outside hurried toward whatever shelter they could find. The evening was cool but not unpleasant-t

ices, and roasted garlic. A short queue had formed at the coun-ter, and I j

til he turned around. At first I assumed he had heard som

re. An ordi-nary dark coat, short graying hair, a calm fa

hough he were equall

mething entirely different in his expression: first a flicker of disbelief, then

a couple

Do we know

said n

istaken me

room. Someone behind the counter called out an order number. He

became annoyed with myself. So a

sage on their phone, and a man with a small boy was trying to zip up his son's coat while holding two bags

anked the girl, and headed toward the exit. For some

ing by the wall,

d his head. It wasn't quite a bow and not quite a greetin

e were ackn

shoulder blades ti

, and something sweet from the bakery next door. Somewhere in the distance, a bicycle bell

omfortable grip and walked faster than usual. Not becaus

ows of closing shops gleamed beneath the streetlights. Everything was familiar, too familiar to let my imagination

d, I looked into the reflecti

umbrella, a cyclist, a couple standing near th

g, but the fe

car, I finally stop

o

eath the last scattered drops of

dinner and somehow managed to i

my common sense. This tim

familiar soft click, and I imme-diately felt calmer. Everything here belonged to me: my bag on the back se

g to the occasional drops tapping against the

gave a ha

tanding beh

as distinct enough that

as empty. No m

ack into t

th

. You're j

go home. Eat, shower, sleep. Preferably without

ed to the reflec-tion again. This time, I saw only

ng flashed

fr

enough to dismiss as the reflection of a streetlamp, but a second la

ned m

t moved

loser to t

as i

e my

hell wit

light vanished. My ordin

ror, the rear-view mirror again, the street, my own hands. Everything w

The dark figure be-hind the car could have been a reflection, exhaustion, someone passing by. Even the silver light

I can decide that tonight I finally

d like a

convi

focus on the road. But the feeling wouldn't leave me. It wasn't exactly fear. It was more like the irrita

ity I knew had shown me another sid

shop win-dows and darkened glass, someone already kn