BREAKFAST IN PARIS
Graeme Cameron
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Graeme Cameron
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Breakfast in Paris
It’s the fourth time he’s done it. The guy at the next table, peering at me over the top of Le Monde. I want to challenge him, ask him if I’ve got crumbs on my face or whether there’s some other business I can help him with, but I’m wary. I’m not sure he speaks my language. I look away, order another coffee.
It’s been an hour and a half and my buttocks ache. The chair is an upright cast-iron affair, not designed to be lingered upon. I shift and fidget, cross and uncross my legs. I stretch them out and trip a passer-by. He stumbles but doesn’t fall, utters some Gallic curse and hurries away. Gridlocked traffic assaults my ears; the low clatter of diesel engines, the mosquito buzz of scooters, the high-pitched caterwaul of car horns. The fumes gag me as they blacken the limestone facades and choke the birds from the trees. I consider moving inside, but my feet are lazy. It’s warm out here and bright, and at least I can’t smell the Gauloises.
My coffee arrives, but the cream does not. I don’t want to make a fuss. I drink it black. The guy next door looks me over again. He perhaps assumes I’ve been stood up. I have an urge to shake him by the throat, hiss warnings in his face, throw him to the pavement. On balance, I choose to simply ignore him. I’m confident she’ll be here; that’s not what's making me anxious. It’s the finality of it, after all this time spent gazing at her picture. Today, finally, is the day, but it’s tomorrow that I’m nervous of. Tomorrow is an unknown quantity.
I scan faces among the widening stream of pedestrians. I’ve memorised her features, branded them so deep that the process is almost subliminal. If I closed my eyes, I wonder, would I simply know that she was beside me? I doubt it. In spite of everything I’ve learned about her, I don’t know the smell of her perfume, the rhythm of her footsteps; I don’t know the swish of her coat or the rattle of her bag. I don’t know the warmth she might radiate, or how her skin might feel to touch. You could say that I don’t truly know her at all, but I know her face like I know my own.
The newspaper guy gives me one last sneering glance as he stands to leave. He’s replaced by a young couple, murmuring sweet nothings to one another in a language I don’t recognise. I’m reminded of myself, way back when; flirtatious and carefree, burning with confidence and desire and optimism. I drink my coffee. I’m left with a bitter aftertaste.
When I finally see her through the crowd, she stands out a mile from the sea of nine-to-five gloom. Her strides are purposeful, her head held high. She smiles at everyone and no one. I’m instantly captivated by her effortless elegance; the roll of her hips and the gentle back-and-forth sway of her shoulders. The waves and ripples of the breeze through her hair.
I have butterflies. She’s more perfect than I imagined, more so than a handful of photographs could ever convey. Her skin is pure porcelain, her dark eyes lined with wisdom and contentment. She exudes grace and nobility scored through with shrewdness and wit; a skilfully practised air of come-hither innocence. She trails sex behind her like a billowing chiffon scarf. She's certainly out of my league.
A hundred yards away and she hasn’t seen me. The butterflies huddle together into a tight, heavy knot. I’m suddenly less sure of myself than I’ve ever been before. I could easily make myself the fool, betray in an instant this hard-earned image of composure. I could live to regret this. It's not too late to bail. I can work an excuse, one for which I could never be held to account. If I walk away right now, she'll never know I was here.
Or I can confront her, struggle to maintain my balance and focus in the face of such insurmountable beauty.
I convince myself that this was a mistake. There'll be others; other times, other places, other opportunities. Next time I'll be prepared, but right now I can barely see straight. I can't go through with this, not today. I grip the arms of the chair, push myself halfway to my feet. And then I falter. I've caught her eye. I've blown it. As she reaches the table her name spills from my stuttering tongue: "Marie."
She breaks her stride, whirls around to face me with an inquisitive smile. "Oui?" she says.
I can't do it. I will the pavement to swallow me. Still not too late, says the voice in my head. Run, while you have the chance. But I know I'm only fooling myself. There'll be no other times or places, no second chance if I lose my nerve. I've got bills to pay, mouths to feed. And reputation is everything in my business.
I open my jacket and slide out the gun. I squeeze the trigger three times. And without further pause, I vanish.
* * *
To Be Continued...
Almuerza en Madrid
Coming Soon
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