Whatever Time It Takes
It is a valuable commodity to me these later days.
The premier cafe on the Champs-Elysées, Le Fouquet’s, sits behind a barricade of potted flowers at the edge of the sidewalk. You can choose a table in the sunshine or retreat to the glassed-in elegance of the grill room’s leather banquettes and rattan furniture. Though this is a fully-fledged restaurant, with a formal dining room on the second floor, most visitors come by for a glass of wine, coffee, or just to sit and watch the world go by.
It is my preference to sit outside. There is no shyness in me telling you why, because the most elegant women in the world pass by.
Three cups of espresso, later. I’m still finishing a poem for Jenny. The waiter returns for the fourth time.
“Monsieur, tout va bien? Vous souhaitez commander de la nourriture?” (Do I want to order food.)
“No, I’m writing. I need to be left alone.”
“Monsieur, tout va bien? Vous souhaitez commander de la nourriture?” (If not, he must ask me to leave.)
“Here, take this for the table. Now please leave me alone,” I said, giving him five hundred francs.
To think, down all these stumbling, dancing decades, and now with so few hours left to spend the way I wish, a young waiter wants to hurry me along.
It was then a vision of sweetness passes by.
“Hello there! How are you?” The woman completely ignores me.
The sweet scent lingering in her wake is the only reminder of her passing. I breathe it in…sighing. The woman walks to the corner, stops, turns around and gave me such a look. She waits for what seems like a lifetime to recognize me.
I put my hands over my eyes and hold my breath. The woman’s footsteps on the sidewalk are again approaching.
Am I dreaming?
I look up at the smiling face.
“Why did you let me walk by?” She asked.
Her question is of no matter. “You are a walking dream. How pretty you look today!”
She smiles, taking in each word like a drop of pink champagne.
I take her hand with those perfectly manicured nails and gently kiss its back. She takes a seat at my table.
“God, I love to walk around Paris, Harry. It’s so pretty this time of year! I love to try new things. I like the art, the museums, and the architecture,” she says, all pearly smiles and red lips and heavenly perfume.
If you go into Paris and beyond — toward all the days left with love in mind and heart, you are probably as close to life as you can ever hope to be.
Whatever time it takes, make that time.
Other work by me:
(No offense will be taken if you dislike being tagged for various reasons. Please let me know, and I’ll be sure it doesn’t happen on my posts again. If, on the other hand, you’d grace me by allowing a tag, I’d be thrilled to add you.)
