A Second Chance in Paris by Ziv Amit

Author:Ziv Amit
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2020-04-05T04:00:00+00:00

A Café in the Latin Quarter, Afternoon

Adam

“I need a coffee.” I also need a rest from all the museums. I walk past a café in the street and go in. It’s a small café with an olden-day atmosphere, little round Formica tables painted red, sticking out over the black floor, reminding me of play balls.

“Coffee please.” Coffee and a cheesecake and something chocolaty and tasty, I stand by the counter and choose with my eyes, point with my hand, then I walk over to a red table and place the jacket that’s been hanging on my arm on a nearby chair, as if it’s going to keep me company.

I was certain I’d find The Little One at the bridge by the river, she always gets so excited by wedding dresses. While I was crossing the bridge I saw them flittering about and walking around proudly, as though they were the white sails of a ship. I hastened over there, imagining her in my mind’s eye standing by them, excited by the white dresses, wiping away a tear and unable to walk away. But despite having walked around through all the smiling women and the men standing at their sides, I couldn’t find The Little One. Maybe she was there earlier and had already left?

“What am I going to do about not having the guts to call her?” My eyes survey the café and the waiter who’s preparing my order, this entire search is hopeless. Romantic in a movie kind of way, but hopeless.

“You only prefer to look for her on foot because you don’t really want to find her,” the waiter tells me as he brings over the coffee and cakes, “you’re just scared of rejection.”

He doesn’t really say that, he just looks at me and smiles politely, but I have a feeling that if he were able to read my thoughts, that’s what he would tell me.

“Thank you,” I tell him and smile back, wondering if he really is able to read my thoughts.

“He’s right.” It’s hard for me to admit, but he’s right, I explain to the jacket on the seat next to me. I’m scared of finding her, I’m scared of hearing what she has to say to me, I’m really scared that she won’t forgive me.

“You’re not thinking right,” the waiter tells me as he walks over to a nearby table, “you need to buy her a present, she’ll forgive you.”

He doesn’t really say that either, but I drink my coffee and observe the couple sitting on the other side of the café. The man is sitting with a hopeful smile in front of the woman, his hands crossed under his chin, while the woman in front of him is gently opening a little present, wrapped in green paper with yellow flowers, smiling at her man with every corner she unfolds. “The waiter’s right, I have to buy her a present,” I tell myself and take a bite out of the cheesecake, thinking about white flittering brides.

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