I hope this cafe gets no business
I walk into the café. I pull out my phone. “Oh no, put that away!” says the barista. “Pretend it’s 1993!” ”I wish you hadn’t said that,” I reply. “What do you mean?” she asks. I try to reply, but it’s too late. Already my body has begun to shrink. My phone falls to the floor. The barista looks on with horror, wishing she could take back her words. I am suddenly half my height. My pants have long since fallen to the floor and I am trapped in my shirt. A three year old version of me struggles to get out, but he too continues to shrink. A one year old me beings to cry and everyone looks on with amazement and horror. Then I begin my regression into a fetus, and eventually, I turn into a clump of cells a size of a grain of rice. “Do something!” someone yells. But it is too late. My initial zygote splits into two gametes, a sperm and an egg, invisible to the eye. The sperm dies as it would not have existed when I am conceived. The barista looks scared, and the other customers are not sure what is going on. And I am sitting alone as a single ovum, unable to ponder my existence. But somewhere deep inside my microscopic self, I know that I am pretending that it is 1993, Nirvana is in again, and that I have won.