Records of a Lost City (Espresso Love Spoiler Alert)

Act 1: Baseball

I didn't truly notice the difference until the fifth one took a baseball bat to the head. Up until that point, I could still argue them off as coincidences and random occurrences. There was the clear sound of Frank Sinatra singing "Fly Me To The Moon" in the background and the quiet tinkle of tea cups. My chai tea latte was steaming up a storm against my nose like always. I had a David Foster Wallace novel beside me. And the couple behind chattered about their pet dog.

A few minutes ago, the barista had sat down, saying she would be taking some time off to visit her relatives in Fukuoka. "They have been bugging me for a while," she said, "I don't often return home. And when I do, I'd only hang out with classmates from middle school most of the time. One is a rich man now. I think he's some successful real estate agent. All the other girls are trying to suck it up to him. But I don't really care for that." She tilted her head at me as if she was expecting an answer. Then she concluded sadly that she won't see me until she gets back a few months later. Fine with me.

Other than that, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Everything was exactly as what you'd expect to be going on in a coffee shop at first. But when what seemed like an old silent movie began to play and there was not a single person watching, it became tremendously strange.

The first man, about six feet, must have been walking down the street, until he began to pass by the window. The windows of the coffee shop were enormous, almost floor-to-ceiling, picturesque, if it had been looking out on anything other than a busy street. The man's legs below the knees were cut off by the bottom of the window, so all I could see were his thighs flashing back and forth like drumsticks on a snare. He's wearing a maroon knit sweater over a white dress shirt. Khaki pants. His pace was even and steady. Perhaps a little awkward, with a slight limp. He had a slight smile on his face, if it could be considered a smile at all. Maybe he was thinking about his girlfriend. Maybe he had gotten a raise. Or was returning from a successful client meeting. Perhaps because a new Studio Ghibli film was coming out. In any case, he managed to make his way to approximately the middle of the cafe's panoramic field of vision.

Then he was hit in the head.

He was hit in the head seemingly out of nowhere. Perhaps it was because a crowd happened to be passing by. But to me, I could've sworn a baseball bat had materialized from thin air.

Down he went, almost in slow motion. He never even had the chance to scream or clutch the back of his head. He crumpled first, his knees like he was earnestly praying in a Catholic Church, and then prostrate in worship. I sipped from my cup and watched the bystanders.

They leapt back like a school of fish parted by a stingray. I saw some run and others stood in shock. Women were crying soundlessly. But their silent parted mouths were only dramatization, a cross between pleasure and tragic soliloquy.

The perpetrator was nowhere to be seen.

Then they saw something from beyond my field of vision. And they all began to move. Slow backward steps, and then hurtling down the street. Something was coming and I was not ready for it.