Ficlets

The fan swirled lazily over the small café, circulating the humid Louisiana air that hung like a shroud in the late afternoon sun. It was the kind of heat that clung to you, making your clothes damp and your breathing difficult. The patrons all sat very still, staring vacantly off into old memories as a man sat over in the corner playing the blues on his guitar.

The melancholy rift seemed to wind itself through the air, fitting the atmosphere of the place like an old glove. It spoke to me of hopelessness and resignation.

But hell, maybe that was just me.

The chimes over the door tinkled as it was opened, a fresh wave of heat following in the wake of a man with a hat pulled low on his forehead. His white linen suit was as impeccable as it was out of place, but nobody noticed. He slid into the chair across the table from me and I glanced over at him. He was looking down, so I couldn’t see his eyes from beneath the brim. It was unsettling.

He smiled, a quirk of the lips. “I hear you wish to make a deal.”