The street wasn’t real.
It could’ve been, though.
People were walking on the pavement precisely the way people walk pavements, cobblestones were shiny blue, tree-trunks reassuring, every dog had an owner and storefronts had nothing to hide. Things were overwhelmingly in order.
The café, too, was perfectly ordinary.
The waiter was ignoring us, you were pissed, and I was watching you get ready to blow a fuse.
But the napkins were nicely starched and the selection of complimentary chocolates was impressive, so, on balance, the place was alright.
Actually, your side of the table was in the shade, making the place more than alright.
But all through our conversation-free coffee that indefinite afternoon I knew it for a fact that that particular street did not exist in that particular town.
And that was an eerie sensation.
Everything else, however, looked and felt perfectly real.
Everything else was, in fact, real. Disturbingly so.
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