The café table still held the warmth of her coffee cup. Marco noticed this as he sat down, the heat transferring through the marble to his forearms. She had left moments ago—he'd watched her gather her things, her movements deliberate and unhurried, as though she had all the time in the world. Or as though she'd already decided.
On the table: a folded newspaper, a receipt tucked under the saucer, and something else. A silver earring, small and unremarkable, the kind you could buy anywhere. Marco picked it up, felt its weight. Too light to matter, too deliberate to be accidental.
He had been meeting her here for three months. Every Tuesday and Friday at exactly this hour. They never exchanged names. Never phone numbers. The rules had been unspoken but absolute: arrive, sit across from each other, talk about nothing that mattered. The weather. The price of oranges. A stray dog someone had fed near the cathedral.
Once, she had told him about a dream where she could only speak in questions. He had laughed. She had not.
Marco turned the earring over in his palm. The clasp was bent, as though it had been opened and closed many times. Not lost. Left.
He looked toward the door. The street beyond was bright and moving, people passing like water. She could be anywhere. She could be watching from across the plaza, waiting to see what he would do.
He could stand up. He could follow the direction she had walked. He could ask the waiter if he knew her. He could slip the earring into his pocket and return next Tuesday, place it on the table between them, wait for her to explain.
Instead, Marco closed his fist around the silver circle and felt it press into his skin. He thought about the things people leave behind—the things they carry. He thought about the difference.
Then he opened his hand and set the earring back where he had found it. He stood, pushed in his chair, and walked toward the door without looking back.
Behind him, the earring caught the afternoon light. It stayed there through the evening shift, through the washing of tables, through the long Barcelona night. When morning came, it was gone.
#flashfiction #Barcelona #strangers #unspoken