By Jackie Blackman
The
cafe's full - a swarm gathers. It's Saturday, play-time for those
of us who work night and day, for nothing. We dress accordingly,
all flesh and leather thighs.
I've
arrived with a date of sorts, a man. We settle ourselves apart
from the buzz, not on the banquette - red velvet crawling with peacocks
on the pick up. That was me a week or two ago but now I've been
promoted.
My
'man' pulls out a chair, a nice touch for a woman my age, past bearing.
He's chosen the situation well - a marble-topped table and a single
frail flower, delicate, unusual, a spotted throat with lolling tongue.
I'd like a full bunch beside my bed, but I can't take to flowers in
my room, not fragrant ones like this, they make me wheeze. But
that's another story, not for thinking now. I sit by the window
on view to the street and thank him, ostentatiously. Chivalry
must be encouraged. I look for signs of an older sensibility.
We
were caught in a flash summer shower, en route, dripping wet.
He offered his coat for my protection. I didn't take it.
Now, outside, there's a strange light, the sky has cleared, the sun
is low. A moment of rain has emptied the heavens. We both
steam up like
damp rotten earth, sodden. The leathers give off a faint whiff
of sulphur, not perfume.
He
hands me the menu. I have a problem choosing. The food so
pretty, so prearranged, is not so friendly. I know from old how
it spikes my insides. We want the same thing tonight, a plate
for sharing. We are of one mind, optimistic - it's the start of
the evening.
The
waiter comes, a busy man - distracted. He takes our order, but
he's not impressed. 'Will that be all?' he wants to know.
'Thanks,
but we'll take our time to choose the wine.' My man is in control
- I like that!
There's
no delay in this place. Food, piled up behind the counter, is
ready for a quick getaway. We are on the conveyor belt.
The waiter is back with a flourish. I move my bag to make a space.
Our
large slab of wood is spread with antipasti. Like slippery eels
the strips of pepper curl and squirm - red and yellow glistening extra
virgin. A slice of cheese, pure white 'goat' and wholesome.
But look, the crispy bread is bleached.
Oh!
I don't know how to behave anymore. I'm at a loss. They
like you keen but not so keen. I'm not that subtly balanced.