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I balance my illicitly obtained bottle of absinthe from a man who knows a man, for an exorbitant amount of Euros, on the worn wooden windowsill of my topmost room at the rundown pension overlooking the harbour. Next to it, I place my well-thumbed copy of La Nausée.* The dark apartment window reflects back the sparse furnishings behind me. I open the window to get a better view and my eyes are immediately drawn to the four cafés on the quayside – the object of my pilgrimage. Their incongruous proximity to one another always fascinated me as it couldn’t possibly be conducive to fair trade. The incessant wind from the Channel they have to endure in this enclave during each January was a bad trade-off for escaping the snow elsewhere.
     The lights from the cafés flicker at this distance like teenagers taking selfies. What is it with people’s constant desire to touch base with one another? If we’re alone in the universe, it would be a tragic waste of space; if we’re not alone, it’s still a tragic waste of space.
     I shut the window when the scent of a Gitanes lit by the occupant below wafts into the night air.
THE END

200 words (Neither THE END, nor the title count towards the word count in micro fiction)

Four Cafes
Sponsor: Julia Ward

Added AFTERWARDS 
Result: N/A
Title changed

BACKGROUND
The four cafés are mentioned in Sartre’s first book, and my statements 'my well-thumbed copy' and 'pilgrimage' led me to switching to the past tense. The mention of 'Euros' & 'selfies' places the piece squarely in the current modern milieu. One would not spend more than a few minutes with the window open in the middle of winter; the cold Channel wind is the prevailing wind on the north coast of France. It seldom snows in Normandy, where this book was set. As Le Havre (a fishing village until the 16th century) is now the site of heavy industry, this tale is pure creative licence.

Pension: boardinghouse in Europe.

Absinthe was banned in France for close to 100 years; only produced for export.

*La Nausée, 1938, is a philosophical novel by the existentialist philosopher, Jean-Paul Sartre. Existentialism is a form of philosophical inquiry that explores the issue of human existence. The incessant reminder that human endeavour is and remains useless makes the book tragic as well.
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‘The universe is a pretty big place. If it's just us, seems like an awful waste of space.’ ~ Carl Sagan
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