Fruit Basket

Short Story By Marco Etheridge

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A woman rides the Number 60 Straßenbahn. The streetcar glides past posh villas pelted by that cold rain peculiar to Northern European cities in early spring. Raindrops streak translucent diagonals down the window at her shoulder. Beyond the streaked glass, the stone city is a noir montage of black and grey. She is glad to be snug and dry inside the tram car.

Looking up the rain-swept street, she sees a hatless man standing on the sidewalk. The man is facing the passing tram, his eyes raised to the leaden sky and pelting rain. In his arms, he clutches the damaged remains of a fancy fruit basket. Behind the man is an elegant door. The door is closed.