Never

Never

Kelsey entered the coffee shop and approached the stage. He stared a long time at the man reciting poetry into a microphone. When the poet grinned, Kelsey reached into his coat, withdrew a pistol and fired one shot into the poet’s forehead.

In the panic that followed, Kelsey climbed the stage and crawled to the dying poet. With his hands and knees in a blossoming pool of blood, he rested his head on the poet’s chest. He heard the world in a new way as if through a conch shell: doves, leaves, traffic, laughter, crying, footsteps -- all the common sounds echoing like he’d never experienced before.

He squeezed one of the poet’s hands, the poet squeezed back. In the whirls Kelsey felt temperatures and textures and emotions. So much he‘d never felt.

The poet gasped. Kelsey watched blood froth from the man’s lips. He gazed into his eyes. There was light and color and mist and depth like Kelsey had never seen in all the time he’d been alive.

Then there was nothing.

Kelsey found his pistol. He smiled, brought it to his right temple and fired.

For those who cared, there would never be reason or explanation. Never.