Every now and then I write a short story. These usually arise from travel when I’m exploring a new space, walking through streets and finding my way. It was during one of these trips that I wrote “Adieu.” I hope you enjoy it.

I knew this day would come, yet I don’t feel anything. I’m just numb. I feel him there, waiting, but I don’t attempt to deviate from my predestined path. It’s inevitable really, just like war. I can’t avoid it. If I alter my steps, I’ll only prolong the end. Might as well help it along because the longer I wait the harder it’ll be on everyone else. I don’t want that for them, and I really don’t want this for myself, not now. I would prefer it happen next year or the next, when I’m old and feeble and ready to lie down in the ground.

What I want, though, doesn’t matter; what he wants matters. It’s his plan, his orchestration, his symphony. The orchestra is about to reach a crescendo, a cacophony of sound entering the air, then it’ll fade into oblivion, notes lingering in the air between us till they dissipate, floating out of existence.

I can put it off for a few minutes, I guess. He’ll be there . He’s always there at the prescribed spot, at the prescribed moment, waiting patiently for my arrival. I know he’ll be there. It’s serene here. None of the pressure of constant movement. I can sit, think, prepare myself for my impending encounter. A woman at the corner sits by a light pole, holding a child in her arms. She holds up a piece of cardborard inscribed with a plea for help, for her and her child. To the right, a block long window looks out at the mother and child, people on stools, eating, filling their mouths with food as they stare into nothing. She gazes at them, and they continue to eat, looking past her into the distance, like animals in a zoo seeking to escape the gaze of onlookers who paid to see them live their lives.

When she turns her head and looks at me, I look away, ashamed because I can’t provide her with the assistance she needs. I left everything, except his fee, behind because I knew I wouldn’t need it on this journey. I put it all where someone would find it, someone who needs it more than me. But, I wish I would have brought some with me for the fellow passengers I see along my route.

I must keep moving; I must keep my date. The child begins to cry, as if on cue, when I get up. I walk past them, glancing down at a flesh and bone pieta, a mother cradling her child, as I, along with a gathering stream, rush past her on our ways to the sea.

I descend underground, step by step, beneath the rushing humanity, to make up for the lost time I spent sitting down. Some follow me, trickling down beneath the surface of the street. I will make up the time, I tell myself. He won’t have to wait too long. He values his time. I cross the threshold and grab hold of a rail before I, along with everyone else, lurch forward into the enveloping darkness.

I stare forward, peering into the yawing chasm, and a man, facing backwards, as if willing himself to go in the other direction, catches my gaze. I look away, averting my gaze, apprehensive about engaging with someone who can’t accept their destiny. We all must accept our appointments because they’re inevitable. We can’t escape them, no matter how hard we try. They lie in wait, counting down the years . . . days . . . hours . . . minutes . . . seconds . . . that announce our arrival at the final stop when he’ll be waiting for us.

The darkness ends with a burst of light as we emerge from underground. I cross the threshold again, entering into the sunlight. I can’t ride to the end. I must walk the rest of the way, on my, buy myself a little more time. My nose tickles with the smells of spring, and my skin tingles with the warmth. I point myself west, moving ever closer to my scheduled date. He’s paitent, never rushing but always insisting we move towards him. I move towards him as he calls me ever forward, no matter how, like the man trying to resist, I want to turn around a walk away, back from whence I came. I can’t. It’s impossible.

I’m making good time, so I duck into a building to rest. Peopler gather, sitting in groups, voices rising to the vaulted ceiling and they mingle into an indecipherable droning noise that constantly fills the room. I walk upstairs and look down upon the scene. I ask myself if they know what awaits them. If they care. They remain oblivious . . . laughing . . . eating . . . drinking . . . laughing . . . smoking . . . laughing . . . lounging . . . laughing. I pity them, their ability to relax and push aside reality, the coming future that they each will encounter in their own manner. What would they change if they knew? If they understood the perils that linger before them? I can’t stay and ponder my queries; I must return to my task. I’m almost done.

I leave them there, jovial and unaware. I continue west to the shore and see him. He stands there, on his boat, staring into the vast expanse of water. He doesn’t speak, even when I approach, offering him a greeting and my fare. He merely extends his finger and points at me. I understand, placing the coin in my mouth before I sit down and await others who share my appointment. When they arrive, he raises his finger towards the water and we begin to move forward into the expanse. I turn to look upon the receding shore, to see any reminder of my journey. The water has already washed away my footprints. Nothing remains. I look out at the water ahead and I drift . . .