And one morning you wake with a cough, it’s four a.m., and you think to yourself what if I had gone on a date with that girl from Rabat?
When you last saw her, it was 19 years ago, almost twenty.
It was snowing.
The snow was light. Fluffy. It weighed nothing. It felt like it would evaporate off your hair, off your face, but it didn’t. It melted and left a little dot of cold wet water.
Her face in the streetlight: tan skin, the color of caramel. Her hair: black, blending into the night, making her seem as if she was fading into the evening.
In Rabat, you would have lived without television. Refrigeration: no. You would have drunk sweet tea at a café in the afternoon. You would have learned not to care where the meat came from. You would be married to a college professor who would seem exotic, still, even if she adopted western dress. You would have been a writer, maybe, of nonfiction articles in The Economist, a half-finished novel about 18th century America in pages on your desk. Your computer would always be five, seven years out of date.
“I have to leave next week,” she said, and you should have kissed her.
You had a girlfriend and you still thought she counted for something in your life.
In 250=1, I write stories that are exactly 250 words long, including the title. Here's a list of all of them, ever.