“L’Heure de Fermeture”

In a quaint, almost timeless marketplace in the city of Nice, two minutes walk from the glowing Mediterranean, a tiny blur of movement could be seen, if one happened to be looking in the right place. The ladybug rearranged herself, tucking her tired wings neatly beneath her polka-dotted armor. She had just flown from a tall, potted fern where she had been enjoying a dinner of aphids. Her new perch was of no interest to her. It was a box of old books, each marked at 15 euros, written over a hundred years ago, donated by an old man who had just lost his son, to whom the books had belonged. None of this concerned the ladybug.

The sun was going down, the marketplace closing for the evening. Down the street loud music began pumping from what looked to be a denim-store-turned-nightclub. The ladybug crawled slowly and purposefully down along the ridges of the yellowed pages, descending into a seclusion that one more profound than she might remark upon, as she was surrounded by the recordings of great minds, all of which remained silent. But for her it was simply a good place to spend the night.

The owner of the store to which the books belonged shuffled out into the dying sunlight and began carting his merchandise back into the confines of his store. The box of Victor Hugo he brought in third to last, a tiny passenger sleeping soundly within.

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