‘Bonne nuit, mademoiselle!’ The last customers pay their bill and reluctantly saunter off across the square. Closing time is her favourite time of the day. When the terrace and the square slowly empty of people and the day’s heat dissipates from the cobbles, a nightly calm seems to settle on the world, underneath the glaring light of the budding starry sky. When the city slowly starts to cool off she finally finds some space for thought.
Inevitably she thinks of the painter who came to the café, her café, this summer. A polite and timid man, but at the same time something intense about him, his hair the colour of fire and his fierce blue eyes seeming to drain the color from his surroundings. His hands constantly moved around, as if he had to give shape to the world around him. He captivated and intimidated her, in equal measures. Compared to his liveliness she felt bland, almost two-dimensional, but she had loved his presence and basked in his attention.
The night when he painted her she felt so alive she could have lifted off and flown to the stars. Indeed, in her heart she did fly. Ever aware of his fiery gaze on her she moved as if in a haze and must have got every order wrong that night, but didn’t care.
When he showed her the painting it was a slap in the face. A joy of color and a celebration of life no doubt, but she herself no more than a light blue smear off-centre. An afterthought almost. ‘Come with me,’ he’d said. But how could she, if this was how he saw her.
‘Désolé,’ she stammered, ‘I don’t have the same feelings.’ His eyes narrowed and his face twitched, a flash of anger. Then he looked perfectly calm again. It was like a crocodile broke the river’s surface for a second and then submerged again.
She picks up the glasses from the table and looks out over the square. She is in love with this city and its late-night vibrant light. It’s a place that both inspires and assuages. How could she ever leave? In the distance there’s piano music, despite the late hour.
‘You can drop a life and start over somewhere else,’ he’d said. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t know how to. Of course she dreamt about white Polynesian beaches with scatterings of palm trees underneath rose-fingered dawns and sunsets, but it doesn’t matter where you go when you bring yourself along.
She tried to return the painting he offered her, but he wouldn’t take it back, hands close to his chest, palms out. ‘A gift,’ he insisted, bowing awkwardly, and hurried away. He hadn’t been back since.
Time to close up. As she walks inside, she watches her reflection in the glass pane of the café’s door: An indistinct face with a light blue apron underneath, its complexion matching the color of the formica table tops behind her almost perfectly.