My first night in Morocco could have been different. Sitting in my riad, alone, I am staring at a fresh soup made from some vegetable I have never heard of. I smile, thinking about the woman I met on the plane. While my eyes are still reflecting those bright colors we don’t have back home, and my ears still echoing with prayers of this alien language, I hope that my stomach does not get upset by the tap water I drank, despite my mother’s multiple warnings. I try the soup, making some noise while eating it, as I remember that’s how it’s done here, and I don’t want to disappoint the locals. Or am I thinking about Japan? In between my slurps I hear a sound, a rhythmical tick tick, like water hitting a metallic surface. I look around, searching for the source of the noise but then I am distracted by the waiter who brings some delicious fried bread, which I garnish with low-quality packaged cheese. Shukriya, I say, although I will learn only later that is what they say in Pakistan, not Morocco. Tick tick. Here comes the sound again, and my mind goes back to Madeleine. I know her name because I dropped my bookmark while reading a collection of short stories by Borges on the plane. She picked it up and tapped on my shoulder to inquire if it was mine. Pretending I was in shock, I said it was and thank you very much. Tick tick. The waiter is back with a goat tagine that smells like it is still alive. Tick tick. She asked, “what book are you reading?”, and that led into an hour-long conversation in which I learnt her name and her phone number. Tick tick. I ask for a glass of wine, but they do not serve alcohol here. Tick tick. I check my phone but there is no message from her. Tick tick. I finally see that the noise is coming from one of the big ceiling lamps, fanoos as they call them here. A bird is trapped inside and it is trying, unsuccessfully, to escape. The bulb is on, so I wonder how the poor thing is not frying. Tick tick. The waiter finds me staring upwards with my mouth open. I gesture at the bird. He smiles, and leaves me. Tick tick. I look at my phone again. No reply from Madeleine. Tick tick. The light is suddenly off, and I am relieved. In the dark, the bird and I share the saudagic feeling of being trapped in a cage of solitude. I am just lucky mine is a bit bigger than his. Tick. Tick.

Davide Risso grew up in Italy, but his itchy feet led him to live in Ireland, Germany, the United States, and travel around the globe. Scientist by training, writer by passion, rock climber by vocation, his fiction has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, RumbleFish Press, Literary Yard, and Cranked Anvil among others. Check his site for more.