Around
A young girl, a teenager, slowly rubs her sandaled foot against the leg of the mop-headed boy sitting across from her. The rest of her family sits next to them, unawares: a father and mother and younger brother, oblivious to their lingering stares. She wears a shirt patterned like a ladybird, tiny black dots on cardinal red, and a headband to match.
Two college-age men with patchy, ratty facial hair sit opposite each other. Baggy shirts, cargo shorts, striped socks and Sketchers – definitely American tourists. They study the plastic-covered table mat/menu. One awkwardly chews on his fork. The other brings his hands to his face, covering his mouth – hungry? Nervous? Awkward man-date: feeling like losers to be on a man-date with so many beautiful women around.
The next table over: a pretty blonde, mid-30’s, smiles at a good-looking man in a white dress shirt, dangerously unbuttoned halfway down. Both smoke cigarettes with a careless, casual languor, arms resting on the chairs next to them, wrists limp. Her glasses have thick, stylish frames, perfectly matching her striped shirt-dress, vest and black tights. She leans forward, takes a sip from her steaming cappuccino, and laughs. He laughs too. At a table for four, the two of them sit diagonally across from each other. Still, there is much smiling, flirting, laughing, curiosity.
Across the street, the Restaurant Safran, “Ambience Bollywood.” Two young couples, 1 enormous hookah, a table set in the threshold, halfway outside the dining room. They pass the pipe back and forth, blowing clouds of smoke upwards, reading large, colorful menu cards.
On the other side of the street, a beautiful girl and her mother dine at a ‘traditional’ French bistro. Two Coke bottles on the table – probably Americans. Cuffed jeans and Chuck Taylors: definitely American. Eating salad, she looks unhappy. Mom has a haircut more appropriate for a woman ten years younger, with stripey, unsubtle highlights. Her denim jacket hangs loosely over the back of her seat. Reaches out and clasps daughter’s hand; daughter’s expression is hard to describe. Pulls her hands away, below the table, and squeezes them between her knees.
Immediately by the door, a girl who is R—‘s doppelganger: blonde, thin hair parted exactly the right way, same thin, small mouth, and the same worried, expressive eyebrows. Red hoodie, hands knit together, she alternates between talking expressively, with something like a smile, and silently staring at her nails between interlaced fingers, all with the same worried brow. Her laugh is unconvincing, forced.
Table for four next to the window, two couples: the bespectacled pair, each with scarves and sweaters – his purple, hers blue – nuzzle with eyes closed, hands on faces, while the couple with jet black dyed hair alternate kisses with bites of dessert.
.
2 Comments