Floaters
by David D. Levine

It started on a sunny spring day. One of those days, rare in the Pacific Northwest, when there isn’t a cloud in the sky — a beautiful pale cerulean blue from horizon to horizon, with not even a contrail to mar its purity. It might have been the first time in six months I’d stepped off my porch without a hat, coat, or umbrella. I grinned and raised my face to the sun.

That’s when I saw it. A thing — no, not even a thing, just an impression of a thing; a momentary imperfection in that seamless blue — that teased at the edge of my vision. My eye flicked toward it, but it either whipped away faster than the eye could follow or it hadn’t really been there to begin with.

The day was sunny, but it was perhaps not as warm as I’d thought when I first went out. I buried my hands in my pockets and headed off to work.

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I’m a barista.
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