Flash Fiction: A Familiar Place

Painting credit:Iain Vellacott

An old record playing "Le Vie en Rose" crackled while I sipped my dirty martini on a luxurious red velvet couch. It had only been a day since I had gotten off the plane, but this place was already feeling familiar. Maybe because it reminded me of him. 

Everywhere I looked I saw him. He would have loved this place. So rich in culture, a slower pace of life, new smells, new languages, a bouquet for the senses.

I took another sip. I saw children outside playing with their dog on the street and imagined what might have been.