Polaroid

Paul was suddenly alone.

The stranger who’d sat beside him at the open-air bar had disappeared somewhere down the street, into the storm.

Where the man had sat, an envelope.

Paul studied it, curious. He picked it up, and a chill ran down his spine.

It’s just the weather—the water running off the eaves and down the back of his yellow rain jacket. Yes, that’s all it was.

He turned the envelope over and opened it.

A Polaroid fell out.

It hadn’t yet developed, but slowly, it revealed itself.

It was an image of the bar—this bar—demolished.

A truck had skipped the curb and smashed through the counter. In the center of it all, beneath the split and splintered wood, a hint of yellow.

Paul’s rain jacket.

He dropped the photo and rushed to leave.

But it was too late.

As he gathered his stuff and turned, he heard the hiss of the brakes and saw the truck barreling towards him.

Then past it, across the street—Paul saw the strange man, lifting a Polaroid camera—waiting, ready—to capture the moment.

The full version of this story is also available — same bones, but longer.