He sat at the same table every morning, probably the same chair, but who could tell as the waiters and cleaning help moved chairs and tables around. All the chairs looked the same, so who could be sure?
A drab, old café; the floor tiles held the scares of years and even more shoes. Dents and cigarette scars on the dark wooden table, in what must have been long lost times. Fading posters told the tales of this festival and that. Large mirrors reflected their own sad stories of faces come and gone, never to return, loves lost and found.
Charles came for the slightly bitter coffee, to spur the imagination, to dream, to wait for words to come out of the air and make him a Hemingway or Faulkner. Until then, and by the craggy face he was running out of Father-Time’s patience; he would sip and stir, both cream and sugar, and scribble down bits and pieces until they turned into poetry. Good poetry. Often published in only the most esoteric quarterlies. Once, the editor, a startlingly beautiful woman, wanted to publish his poetry in a prime magazine. He didn’t remember her name or if he was more thrilled by her eager face, or the thought that he might make it, finally make it, to the top of the literary trash pile.
Didn’t happen. She was so sorry, but her boss was a grouch. She was sure Charlie would understand. Yes, Charlie did understand, only too well. If she really thought so highly of his work, she would have called him Charles. He softly sighed to think of it.
Words came fluttering past. Leaves in the wind. He reached out and caught a few.
The misty morning tells the sum
Of hearts now broken, souls that lost
And yet the faith in loves to come
Long buried, having paid the cost.
Well, it was a start. Not a great one, but that was the benefit of writing slowly and in pencil. You could change your mind, change your fate.
Ahhhhh….
The breeze would twist and bend the fates
The Gods will answer, bring a sigh
To charge the mind, it’s not too late
To hear her, …….
Yeah, then what? What does sigh have to do with it.
To hear her….
The waitress appeared out of nowhere. “Would you like a warm up?” blond hair with slight streaks of gray. Shapely. Well kept nails.
“Are you talking about coffee?” Innocent jest that brought a smile.
“Sadly, yes,” she said, with a repeat of that glorious smile, as she lightly brushed fingers through her hair.
“My bad luck.”
“You never know when luck will change.” Another smile.
He smiled back. “I’ll start with coffee and see where it goes.”
“That’s the way my mornings start,” she said, amusement playing across the full lips, the red lipstick.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” he said, still smiling.
If they kept this up their lips would stay stretched.
“The easy answer is because this is my first day, but not necessarily my first time waitressing.”
“Aren’t you afraid to use the word waitress?”
“Why should I be? I’m a woman.”
“Well, I thought destruction of the differences between men and women was part of God’s master plan, or somebody’s plan.”
“Vive la difference, I say,” said with a French accent.
“You don’t seem like the waitressing type.”
“What makes you say so?”
“ I’d guess you are well educated and know what you’re doing and how to keep customers happy. By the way, the accent sounds French, or Belgian, or somewhere else.”
“That’s not rare here in London.”
“So, where in France are you from?”
“The part that would rather live in London. By the way, you’re a writer, n’est pas?”
The conversation broke off. Other customers. Too much time in one spot. She turned back and smiled again on her way.
Damn it, he thought, I should have asked her what rhymes with sigh.
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