foreign, whether he is a tourist. I also wonder whether I could say hello to him, in French or in English, whether we would like each other, whether we could sleep together. Two days ago I was in a hotel that reached the sky: 37th floor, half the world over. My spine is compressed after the flight, my legs unwisely crossed. I have never felt like this before. It feels old.
The man, who is older than I am and not particularly attractive, orders some food in English. On the plane I ate things I had never eaten before, things I didn’t particularly want to eat at times I didn’t want to eat them. The more of the things I ate, the more I accepted them, and the more angry I became in the times between, when they did not appear.
I order. Madame , says the waiter, Mademoiselle (more of the Madame nowadays). I am careful to speak French with an English accent. It would be disrespectful to the waiter who wants to practice his English, to the foreign man at the next table, to show too much proficiency.
The man’s order arrives quickly. It is a steak. Portions in this café are large; portions on the plane were small, but still I feel full. I can smell his steak. It is the steak I did not order, both for financial reasons and because I thought it might be too filling. He eats his steak quickly with no wine. I eat a croque monsieur slowly with a glass of wine that is not the cheapest on the menu. I drink so the scum of things rises to the surface. I spent my money on wine: he spent his money on steak. Who got the best value? He takes a bottle of Coca-Cola out of his bag and, when the waiter goes away, takes surreptitious sips. Perhaps he is economizing too.
The man with the steak looks at my legs, which gives me permission to look at the message he is typing into his mobile phone. I cannot see it as the glass reflects. I feel cheated.
I am tired and slightly drunk and still hungry. He is full of steak and Coca-Cola and, presumably, energy: enough energy to cross the road and walk up the steps inside the tower of the cathedral, which I have never entered.
In a few hours I will travel back to the airport to take another plane. Sitting here I am already waiting to wait. I have had so many last times here, it is impossible to tell whether this will really be the last. Time, when it is limited, is more beautiful. My wine tastes of smoke, incense. How can I leave this place? How can I stop watching the flow of tourists across the road? (Look! That one dropped something. It catches the light, shines! A valuable or just a cellophane wrapper? She does not notice, does not return to pick it up.) I drink my wine. I eat my bread, put Paris into my mouth. Look! Look at the bread, the wine, the tourists! I cannot stop looking at them.
The man at the next table takes a large, black camera from his bag and photographs what remains of his steak with a lens so long he can he barely fit it between himself and his plate. The camera makes a soft expensive click. As soon as I hear this I know I could never talk to him. He finishes quickly, and quickly asks for the check. He gets up from his table and leaves.
He has hidden the remaining part of his large steak under his napkin. Our tables are close, so close I can still smell the steak, so close I could reach across and take it, eat it.
SUMMER STORY
It’s the dry point of the year, and I’ve been waiting for an answer for some time.
No one’s doing anything. There are not enough people left in town to eat all the fruit in the supermarkets. It piles up, 2/3 price, then 1/2 price, then finally returns to the back room on tall steel trollies.
The night I slept with him, it rained. He wore a shirt that, although we’d only met a couple of times before, I felt was unusual for him. He wore a jacket with a mend on the elbow that spiraled in concentric circles. Then in the morning he looked not as he had looked the night before, but as he had the other times we’d met, and he smelled slightly of
The man, who is older than I am and not particularly attractive, orders some food in English. On the plane I ate things I had never eaten before, things I didn’t particularly want to eat at times I didn’t want to eat them. The more of the things I ate, the more I accepted them, and the more angry I became in the times between, when they did not appear.
I order. Madame , says the waiter, Mademoiselle (more of the Madame nowadays). I am careful to speak French with an English accent. It would be disrespectful to the waiter who wants to practice his English, to the foreign man at the next table, to show too much proficiency.
The man’s order arrives quickly. It is a steak. Portions in this café are large; portions on the plane were small, but still I feel full. I can smell his steak. It is the steak I did not order, both for financial reasons and because I thought it might be too filling. He eats his steak quickly with no wine. I eat a croque monsieur slowly with a glass of wine that is not the cheapest on the menu. I drink so the scum of things rises to the surface. I spent my money on wine: he spent his money on steak. Who got the best value? He takes a bottle of Coca-Cola out of his bag and, when the waiter goes away, takes surreptitious sips. Perhaps he is economizing too.
The man with the steak looks at my legs, which gives me permission to look at the message he is typing into his mobile phone. I cannot see it as the glass reflects. I feel cheated.
I am tired and slightly drunk and still hungry. He is full of steak and Coca-Cola and, presumably, energy: enough energy to cross the road and walk up the steps inside the tower of the cathedral, which I have never entered.
In a few hours I will travel back to the airport to take another plane. Sitting here I am already waiting to wait. I have had so many last times here, it is impossible to tell whether this will really be the last. Time, when it is limited, is more beautiful. My wine tastes of smoke, incense. How can I leave this place? How can I stop watching the flow of tourists across the road? (Look! That one dropped something. It catches the light, shines! A valuable or just a cellophane wrapper? She does not notice, does not return to pick it up.) I drink my wine. I eat my bread, put Paris into my mouth. Look! Look at the bread, the wine, the tourists! I cannot stop looking at them.
The man at the next table takes a large, black camera from his bag and photographs what remains of his steak with a lens so long he can he barely fit it between himself and his plate. The camera makes a soft expensive click. As soon as I hear this I know I could never talk to him. He finishes quickly, and quickly asks for the check. He gets up from his table and leaves.
He has hidden the remaining part of his large steak under his napkin. Our tables are close, so close I can still smell the steak, so close I could reach across and take it, eat it.
SUMMER STORY
It’s the dry point of the year, and I’ve been waiting for an answer for some time.
No one’s doing anything. There are not enough people left in town to eat all the fruit in the supermarkets. It piles up, 2/3 price, then 1/2 price, then finally returns to the back room on tall steel trollies.
The night I slept with him, it rained. He wore a shirt that, although we’d only met a couple of times before, I felt was unusual for him. He wore a jacket with a mend on the elbow that spiraled in concentric circles. Then in the morning he looked not as he had looked the night before, but as he had the other times we’d met, and he smelled slightly of
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