The Priory Lit. Mag

The café was called Le Fromage, and looked every bit as cliché as its name. White lace table cloths covered numerous small circular café tables that spilled out into the sidewalk and obstructed shoppers with their huge, colorful bags. Dainty vases with a single rose were placed on doilies on every table. The gilded storefront had fake marble pillars on each side. Black wrought iron chairs clustered awkwardly around the tiny tables. A balding waiter polished a glass behind the bar, glancing indifferently at the only couple seated in the café.

“I want to see you again,” said the man, over the Edith Piaf blaring through the speakers.

“It’s been a long time since we saw each other,” the woman said, poking at her fries that reeked of garlic.

“Yes, too long,” he leaned towards her and rested his hand next to the “Bon Appétit!” card next to the cheese salt and pepper shakers, close to hers.

She sipped her water.

“I miss you,” he continued, “I think what we have is special.”

“You’re a special guy,” she responded after a moment’s hesitation.

“You’re special too.”

“Thanks.”

He leaned back in his chair and focused on the street behind her head. Streams of people flowed across the sidewalks and streets, oblivious to the cars skirting wildly around them. A group of Japanese tourists climbed off a cable car and took pictures of the street. He wondered if he should pose. She stared at her salad.

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“Peter,” she said, setting down her water glass, “I don’t want to be here.”

Peter settled back in his chair, “Then why did you come?”

“I felt like I didn’t have a choice!” it was her who leaned forward this time, “All the emails, phone calls, hell, the flowers to my flat!”

“I just wanted to see you again,” Peter picked up a cheese shaker and played with the edges.

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re a great guy, but I don’t really want a relationship now.”

“We don’t have to be. We could be friends. I just need to see your beautiful face.” Peter put the shaker back on the table and gave her a half-smile that twitched on one side of his face before disappearing completely.

“I don’t think that’s what you want.”

“Who cares what I want.”

“Well I—I mean, what do you want?”

“I want to see you.”

“I know.”

He shrugged, “You asked.”

She stared angrily at her fries for a moment as if they had just personally insulted her.

“Fine,” was all she said.

“Did I make you mad?”

She crossed her arms, and then unfolded them quickly, “No. I’m not mad.”

“I will never make you mad. I promise,” Peter leaned across the table again and put the tips of his fingers against hers that rested tensely on the edge.

With a flick of her hand she waved off his encroaching fingers and grasped the edge of her chair.

“This is what I mean! Its too much, I’m sorry.”

She stood abruptly from the table, scraping the metal chair against the concrete. She grabbed her purse and looked at him again, he was staring with a furrowed brow at his water glass, holding it with both hands.

“Bye, Peter.”