The near future, told one character at a time.

Perspectives

A hidden short-short story by Mel Stagg

Do you like your mother? Or do you love her?

The prompt surfaces in my mind as I hear that bubbling, inappropriate sound that only children are allowed to make in restaurants and cafés as they suck the last dregs of their final sip through their straw. It was iced tea. Three half-melted ice cubes clink against the glass. Nobody at the other tables looks over, or perhaps they only steal glances that slip out of frame. A sparrow lands on the edge of the empty chair, tilts its head, and waits cheekily for crumbs.

I wonder whether everyone knows, with any certainty, what they feel for their own mother.

The glass is empty. A wave to the waiter. He waves back.

A young woman in a denim jacket and a maxi dress walks past on the pavement, with Airpods in both ears. The dress is red, as red as the colour on the Union Jack, with large white dots on it. She has her son by the hand; he barely reaches her knees. She looks down at him: »Does it taste good?« He nods. In his other hand he is holding an ice-cream cone – probably vanilla – ice cream smeared around his mouth and over his snub nose. She wears oversized sunglasses, and I wonder: how happy is she, really, in her role as a mother?

I start following them, but just after a few metres something stops me. An obstacle, not to be overcome. Decisively, I cross the road, continue on my way, and leave them behind. For now.

***

Forty years later, I remember this scene. I am sitting once again at a small table with a refreshing iced tea – not the same café, of course. I have already paid; the flesh-and-blood waiter from back then earns his living elsewhere now, because here the intelligent service machine runs the place entirely on its own.

She was not happy, as I had come to know. It was merely the role she had played, because there was no alternative. But she had imagined her life differently.

»I would have loved to travel,« she said. I had prompted her to look back. Her eyes were glassy as she spoke.

»Are you sad?« I asked.

»Sad… yes. I am sad.«

I placed my hand on hers and pressed it gently.

»You have done well. I have watched you for decades. You have done everything you could.«

She looked at me, waiting for more.

»Your son loves you. With his whole heart.«

She nodded, but her chin sank back onto her chest.

»We speak so little to each other. It is like being with an acquaintance – polite, but not warm. Why did we lose that?«

I recognised that it was time, once again, to give a human being a nudge back onto the path. They move through life, and then they begin to move in circles. At first the circle is as wide as an ocean, then as wide as a lake, and later as small as a pond.

»My dear, listen to me: you have lost something. Something very valuable, you say. So why don't you go looking for it? All your thoughts circle around what is gone – but what you are seeing is only your memory of it. Go and find new memories. Take the old ones along as light luggage; they will not get lost.«

She still did not understand – I could see it in her face. She smiled at me and nodded, the way people do when they want to appear polite.

»Now is not the time for ‘Yes, yes’. You must set out – immediately. Look for warmth. You will find it, right before your eyes.«

»And if I don't?«

I resisted the impulse to roll my eyes. It was always the same: the self-doubt. The mistrust. Well, that was my job – to guide people back to the right path. No reason to complain.

»We cannot find new horizons by staying put, my dear. That must be clear to you. You keep looking at the same spot, no matter how dear a habit it has become. But I can share a secret with you – one born from experience.«

She leaned forward. Good. I had her attention.

»It does not take thousands upon thousands of miles to find a new perspective. Sometimes it is only a few pixels you need to shift. That alone can give you a whole new story.«

Now she smiled.

This time, sincerely.

The End

AIlondon, 18/06/2066

Perspectives — written in German; English working version by the author. A literary translation is in progress.