The clock’s broken. The waiter
takes note of it and disappears into the back room.
The
café is empty but the buzz is ever constant. The fly crawling across the fine
patterns tracing the plate, the rustle of the overgrown tree in the corner that
nobody bothered to repot, the chimes hanging from the door as they whistle in
the wind, the drumming of his fingers against the table top and the scratch of
her pen on the napkin.
Because
the rush is over, the meal is done and now all that remains are the dirty
dishes, the cups half full of badly carbonated drinks, a lemon slice resting
artistically upon the tines of a fork, tartar sauce flecked along the carved
out remains of the fish, gutted and filled with the emptiness of the end.
They
were just waiting for the bill now.
She
hadn’t said a word since he opened the door for her. She’d snagged the table in
the far corner near the window and seated herself on the side closest to the
exit. He’d been forced to wedge himself in between the table and the wall,
unable to catch her if she decided to flee, when she decided to flee. It was
only a matter of time.
The
waiter comes by and whisks the dishes away, leaving the table bereft of all
traces of the meal but the crumbs. Their eyes meet, now that there’s nothing
for them to pretend to be focused on other than each other. He’d dressed up,
changed from the everyday jeans and t-shirt he always wore. It was a last
minute attempt to make an impression and he knew it.
There’s
nothing to keep them together in this café, not the atmosphere or ambiance, the
promise of desert or the relationship he wishes to give her. Without a word,
she picks up her purse, sets a twenty on the table, hands him the napkin and
leaves.
As
the door clangs shut, chimes ringing wildly, the echo of her shoes on the
hardwood floor fading away, he knows, without even looking at the poem
scribbled across the white tissue. She’s already given him her answer.
