First off, I’d like to thank everyone who participated in this contest—writers and commenters alike! The contest surpassed my expectations, and it was a delight to see so many entrants, in addition to all of the enthusiasm and support in the comments section. I truly appreciate everybody who took part, and I’d especially like to give my heartfelt thanks to Aniket for hosting the contest. We had a great deal going–I got to sit back and have fun; he did all the work.

Until last night, that is, when I made my final choices. And what a decision it was. I’d like to talk about my judging process a little, for those of you who are curious. First, I narrowed the entries down to five. These five, to me, demonstrated the highest facility of writing. Each of these stories or poems was a wonderful, fluid reading experience for me as a reader. There were very few hiccups in terms of grammar, punctuation, awkward phrasing or dialogue, or excessive wordiness. These entries flowed, lending a precious believability to, and immersion in, the story itself.

From there, it became harder. I had to squeeze down on each line of each piece. Minor problems—like sloppy sentences, overwrought phrasing or dialogue, or a lack of narrative immediacy—were accounted for. Ultimately, I believe that good writing trumps everything. Good writing is what makes the story breathe on the page, and is what translates emotion to the reader’s heart. The selections I made are wonderful examples of writing we all can aspire to.

And here, in no particular order, are the two winners whom I selected to receive free copies of Plum Blossoms in Paris:

Morning Maelstrom by May Anderton

Because it relied so heavily on “telling” and peripheral action, this was an exceptionally tricky story to pull off. But May did so beautifully. It wouldn’t have worked nearly as well as a straight-up breakup tale. As it was, I found it hypnotic. The swirl of events occurring on the narrator’s fringes—the excruciating detail of what she distracts herself with—contrasted with the vast remove of her emotional state felt acutely realistic to me. As if she had become the stranger to herself.

To me, this entry was a French film, played out in deep, deep focus.

Congratulations, May! Impeccable craftsmanship.

Present by Precie

To me, Precie’s title could be interpreted in two ways. One, of course, is that the painting was a gift to her parents. But there is also an important realization congealing from those unsatisfying layers of paint: that Dee’s present relationship with Chris cannot compare to her parents’ past. She will not give up on that dream, just as she cannot give up on painting that perfect work of art.

Precie’s writing painted the details well here, and Dee’s epiphany felt organic to me. I had great sympathy for Chris, but Dee’s stubborn sense of artistic and romantic idealism struck a nerve of painful authenticity.

Congratulations, Precie! Matisse would be proud.

Note from Aniket:

* Winners please mail your shipping address to aniket.thakkar@gmail.com for your soon-to-be-cherished copy of Plum Blossoms In Paris. Congratulations for your deserved win! *

The train lurches forward, and I kick my carry-on bag, which holds a hodgepodge of items in disarray. Slumping forward, something cylindrical and urgently green rolls down the long aisle. I gasp and make a grab for it, but it’s too late. The thing lazily ricochets across the rubbery aisle, alerting everyone of my presence. Every French eye, snatched from perusing Le Monde or Le Figaro, watches its progress, as it pitches this way and that, according to the undulations of the train car. It hits an older lady on the back of her chunky heel before banking across the aisle and coming to rest against a leather bag whose owner I cannot fathom.

It’s the portable oxygen mask sealed in a canister—“The Life Force 3000”—I take on every airplane flight, in case of emergency. My father bought my first one twelve years ago, before our family flight to England, and I have purchased this one, the third, from a catalogue that sells such things as radiation suits and water filtration devices and, well, lifesaving oxygen. The third, because they expire. Oxygen doesn’t last forever, apparently.

I bolt from my seat, mortified to be an instigator. Each placid eye finds new focus, zeroing in as I stumble forward, fixing me with such a look of scientific detachment that I feel like a lab rat put through a maze for their study. At least the rat has some cheese to focus on. I compensate for my gaffe by mumbling, “Sorry, sorry,” not even capable of locating “Perdón” in my small French repertoire during the low tide of this second, petty humiliation of the day. I am cognizant of how overly abused the word surreal is in our language, but I don’t know how else to describe chasing down my emergency oxygen mask in a train barreling toward Paris on a foggy morning, with the imperious eyes of France judging me. I almost expect that lady, the one three rows up, with the fussy white dog whose eyes bulge and whose tongue pinkly protrudes, to drink her coffee from a cup wrapped in fur. I have never seen a dog like that, much less on a public train. It’s wearing a pompadour and roosts like a hen on its silk, saffron pillow.

“Sorry. Sorry,” I repeat as I inch forward, smiling nervously, hopeful that, at the very least, they find me colorful. But nobody, not even the dog, cracks a smile. A ticket agent approaches, and I perform a soft shoe number with him, during which he has the nerve to frown disapprovingly. “Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur!”

Finally, I’m in range of the ridiculous object, which shrieks, For Emergency Use Only! I bend down to retrieve it. My outstretched fingers brush against the leather of a black satchel. The bag is soft yet firm, like the skin of a man’s shoulder. I lock onto the canister, relieved to be done with this genuflection, and start to rise.

“You bring your oxygen with you at all times, then?” a voice asks.

Half-crouching, I confront a pair of almond-colored eyes, inches away. Startled, I retreat to a fully upright position. The stranger, the owner of the interested eyes, offers an amused half smile and continues, “Or is it only in France?”

Flustered, I laugh a little. I scramble to think how he knows I’m not French. There are three languages of cautionary warnings on the canister. Why couldn’t I be French?

“I could use some right now. I think I just sucked all the air out of the car.”

His face is long and intelligent, and when he looks at me, I feel like I might finally forget my name. “Do not let them fool you. Parisians are like a—how do you say?—a cult. They enjoy making outsiders, particularly Americans, feel like outsiders.” His accent is thick, but his words aren’t clunky, delivered with a natural rhythm that makes me believe he has spent a lot of time abroad, in England or the U.S.

“How did they know I’m American?” I can’t help but ask, forgetting my little performance of thirty seconds ago.

“Well, are you not?”

“Yes, but I don’t understand.” I frown. “Are we that hopelessly out of place?”

“I heard your accent; the others likely did too. And the apologizing?” He nods and offers a wry smile. “For all their occasional bluster, I find Americans to be the most insecure nation of people.”

Stung, I retort, “And I am finding the French to be the most judgmental.”

He laughs. “You are probably right about this.” His eyes flick to his book, about the size of his hand. Small, intense font. He seems finished with me.

His ready detachment curls my toes into their Keds.

The ticket agent returns to find me still making his life miserable. Turning to leave, I realize I have a book in my left hand, a finger marking some phantom place on page who-gives-a-crap. Before I can take a step, the stranger’s eyes, alerted to the book by the flapping of its pages—a soft, airy phfft as I allow the leaves to run over my thumb in dissatisfaction—catch the title. I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but his face illuminates, like a child’s who is entrusted with a delicious secret, and he exhales from a pocket of ecstasy I cannot fathom. Looking up at me, eyes burning, he remarks, “I apologize. I see the whole of your situation now.”

“And what is that?” I ask, baffled. I’m not used to people talking like this. You know, with sincerity.

His eyes are like my father’s at his best: clear and brilliant, believing the best in me. “You are no tourist.”

He turns back to his little book without another word. I am transported, without legs, back to my seat. I do not think I breathe until the train pulls into a station, and the doors part with a soft swoosh. He rises to exit the train, never looking back.

I watch him go.

As most of you know that I’m the host for this site. So obviously, my post doesn’t count as an entry to the contest.

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“It’s time for high tea!”  She rang as she sat at the miniature table, over-sized hat drinking her head.  She pushed it back again with her right hand while her left reached for the sky, relying on gravity to drop the cuff to render her hand useful.  She sat in yards of fabric that comprised a skirt that some time ago, someone left in a place that no one remembers.  Its life unknown and forgotten, how it came into the little girl’s possession no one really knows.  She pays no attention to the stains that riddle the ruffles on the more-than-floor-length fabric.  Seated on a barrel of unknown contents; which she imagined was tea, mostly because it was always tea time.  Time for tea!  She would say, mostly when she didn’t have anything to say at all.  The barrel seat was pulled up to an old wooden bench that served as the miniature table top, draped in a blood red cloth that, most likely, she stole from the captain.  Two saucers lay on the table, or what passed as saucers, and the accompanying cups were filled to the brim with imaginary piping hot tea.  Today’s high tea delicacy was a buttery croissant, which in reality was a stale piece of bread.

“It’s time for high tea!” she echoed again.

“No!  I said it’s time for the high sea!” the response shouted down the wooden ladder leading from the belly of the ship to the deck.  “I want to play pirates, now get up here or I be makin’ ye walk the plank” she paused and then added, “matey.”

“Come drink the tea, it’s getting cold. Then we be pirates.”  She paused, took a breath and ended with “arrgh!”

“Always it’s tea, tea, tea.  The first thing we’re gonna do when we’re pirates is dump all the tea in the harbor, mark me words and from now on, call me Black Eyed Jill, harbinger of treasure.  Don’t ask me what harbinger be meanin’ cus I dough’na know, but it be soundin like somethin a pirate would say.”  She jumped from step to step until she landed with a solid thud,  the over-sized boots firmly commanding wooden ground.

“Black Eyed Jill, dough’na be forgettin’ yer napkin on yer lap.  You donna wanna ruin yer best pirating trousers.”

“Arrr, dough’na be tellin’ me how to be livin me life, ya wee lass.  I’ll tar ‘an feather ya faster than ye can be saying leapin’ lizards.”  Black Eyed Jill examined the party setting, looking for a seat.  In the corner she spied it, a short bucket that would put her knees just flush with the table top, but well within reach of her awaiting tea.  “What yer name be, missus?”

“Don’t be puttin’ yer elbows on the table!  We be havin’ manners at this here tea party.  Don’t ever learn you nothin,” she said exasperated as she relieved the now crooked cloth back to its original position.  “Yer better start callin’ me Tricksie Tina, or yer be leaving this tea party with an eye patch and in no friendly manner.”  Her voice trailed off into a hum.

Black Eyed Jill scowled with her good eye across the table at Tricksie Tina, then growled, “Quit that there racket and give me some bread with jam.”

Tricksie Tina slammed her hand down on the table, sticking the dull edge of the butter knife into the table, “Here thar be manners, not every pirate for herself!”  Tricksie Tina relaxed her grip on the butter knife and leaned back onto her seat, adjusted the overwhelming sleeve.  “If’n yer be wantin this here jam smothered in delicious booty of the last pillage, yer gonna have ta be a little more accomordating.”

“Accomordating?? Accomordatin to what?”

“Yer know, payin the homage and all that, like they do to queens.”

“You’re saying yer be wantin presents.”  Jill said flatly.

“I be sayin I be wantin pressies.”  Tina confirmed, even toned as the corners of her lips curled ever so slightly.

“Yer not be getting any pressies from me.”

“Than I be eatin all the jam an’ bread.”

“That’ll be the day.”  Jill challenged.  She raised her body just over the table leaning heavily forward.  “I be sayin’ it’s bout time we be movin the tea party top side.  Give the tea a proper kettle, a kettle for the fishes!”  Jill kicked her seat out from under her and lunged for the invisible tea.  Tina, stunned by the turn of events dropped the butter knife, “NOOOO!  Not me tea!”

“If’n yer not be playin fair I be doin as I darn well please, takin the tea top side.  Besides, we be pirates, and pirates be doin what they know best, pillaging from them who’ve got stuff!”

“Black Eyed Jill, you’ll be double Black Eyed Vermin when I be done with ye,” Tina spat at she lunged to take back her rightful tea.  The two pushed and pulled and emphasizing their might with an arghh and a grrrrrrrrr here and there when the floor boards popped and yelled that a girth of weight had landed, dislodging the simple structure it offered.

They saw his feet, perfect width apart, hands on hips, hat slightly back showing his menacing eyes.  “Oi!  Look lively, or yer be swabbin the decks!  This’n isn’t time fer a kerfufel .  We have some pirating to be doin.  Give yer pops a kiss and get yer arses topside and batten down the hatches.”

Black Eyed Jill helped Tricksie Tina move to the steps in her costume.  They reached their father at the same time and each one took a cheek to don their sweet, loving kiss.  Out of nowhere, as was his wont, his hands appeared holding sprigs of plumb flowers, one in each hand.  “Complements of Captain Black Heart Jim to the prettiest gerls on the entire 7 seas.”

Consciousness ebbed in and out of crevices, spilling down into cracks until his brain began to fill with awareness.

What day is it? Work??

His eyelids strained and slowly pushed open, a minuscule task that, for some reason, felt like moving a mountain. Light flooded in, overwhelming his vision and forcing his eyelids back down. He tried again, this time letting the light peek into his pupil bit by bit. A white wall greeted him with a sterile hello.

Where am I??

He tried twisting his neck to look to the right, then to the left only to be thwarted in all his attempts. He wrestled to bring his hands to his face, but he was pinned. His pristine bedding wouldn’t even ripple.

What’s going on? Why can’t I move?

Panic tackled his awareness and drowned out all of his senses.

This is not good. Am I being held hostage? Had too much to drink?

“HELP!” he screamed, but the silence remained untouched.

I can’t feel my body. I can’t speak. I can see where my legs are, but I’m disconnected, an unattached spirit. This doesn’t make sense. Is this death? What’s going on?

A door opened and someone walked in. Perhaps it was God to deliver his fate.

“Oh, you’re awake. Hi, my name is Kate,” said a soft lilac voice. Suddenly she was at the end of the bed with a sorrowful face that she was trying to hide with a smile.

“I’m sorry to say that you’ve been in a very bad car accident, sir. Eyewitnesses say you were out for a run when a driver lost control of his car and hit you…”

She kept talking, but her words flew directly through him and bounced against the wall.

Accident? I don’t remember an accident. He paused, trying to remember anything before waking up. I…I can’t remember…a thing. I can’t remember a single thing! I can’t remember my life! How can I not have a single memory? Who am I?

“…Sir?” He couldn’t help but see as she tried to get his attention by putting her hand on where his foot. He couldn’t feel it. She jumped back and looked down at her feet. Her rosewood hair fell in her face, hiding her blush.

“Sir, I’m so sorry. You are completely paralyzed…”

Paralyzed. Completely. Trapped. Dead. I’m broken. In every way. I am nothing.

He closed his eyes, the only form of movement he could now manage. A firing squad of pain receptors in his brain yelled of impending doom.

“…and you didn’t have any ID on you so we haven’t been able to call anyone to be with you…”

I’m in hell. And death still marches toward me. But I don’t want to die! Of course living this way is no life. And really, what does it mean to die when you don’t remember living?

He struggled to open his eyes again. Kate had disappeared from the foot of his bed. He was left to look at the wall. He hadn’t noticed the painting the first time. It was a lonely scene of a Paris café; two coffees sitting untouched next to a croissant. Flowers adorned the table, but they couldn’t help the sense of abandonment the table felt.

Paris. Ha. I can’t remember my name, but I know that’s Paris. Someone explain that one to me. Also, explain why I feel so desolate at the thought of the place? Argh! Pain is preferable to this agonizing feeling I’m losing something important. Don’t ask me what though. Why can’t I remember?! Remember, damn it! Just remember!

He closed his eyes to stop looking at the painting.

Who puts that kind of retched artwork in a hospital?! Damn that painting. Damn that driver. Damn the world. Damn my stupid brain for not remembering.

He opened his eyes and looked at the painting again. This time, something changed. It was as if one of the crevices in his brain opened up and his consciousness sloshed down to fill it, explore it. Flashes of a woman overwhelmed his vision. Her face was the most exquisite thing. Glass couldn’t have been smoother. Caribbean-blue eyes shimmered while strawberry lips smiled.

Then flash. He was in the Quartier latin casually sitting outside a café. She walked by, wisps of golden hair trailing behind her. His heart leaped higher than he thought possible. He followed her until he could “accidentally” bump into her.

Flash. They sat on the steps of Sacré Cœur, quietly watching the sun set on Paris. He looked at her and felt his heart leap again. The light hitting her face made her seem heavenly. And to him, she was. He unwrapped his hand from hers, cupped her chin and moved her face in his direction. He moved in slowly to keep his heart from exploding. Their lips met, intertwining for the first time.

Flash. She was walking toward him, flowers held loosely in both hands. Their eyes met. She smiled. He was the luckiest man alive.

Flash. She was lying next to him in bed, their bed. She casually mussed his hair as she told him the secrets of the world. He was half asleep. “I’m pregnant,” she whispered in his ear.

Sophie.

His eyes closed.

I don’t know where you are, but Death is coming. I can feel it all around. I will hang on for you.

He opened his eyes again, wanting the painting to somehow send a message to her, tell her where he was.

No! My vision, it’s all I have left. Please, God. No! Not the painting! It’s disappearing…on every side it’s fading. Blackness! No! Please, God, just one more time. You have to let me see her one more time. One more time. Please, God. Please. Just once.

Pain coursed through his awareness.

He was losing the war.

Sophie. I love you so much.

Sophie…

The Birthday Party
Moscow, August 10, 1961
By Aaron M. Wilson

Oleg Vladimirovich Penkovsky wet his comb with hot water that streamed from a polished silver tap. Music played downstairs. He raked his thinning red hair back into place. Parties could never move quickly enough for Penkovsky. First there were the arrival announcements. Then when the last name on the list was crossed off and sounded, a period of casual conversation ensued lubricated with Vodka and caviar. Even if this stage of a party was Penkovsky’s favorite, for all the gossip that was spilt, it was always followed by a speech, dinner, more socializing, another speech, even more socializing, and finally departures. He finished combing his hair. He dried his comb and slipped it into the back pocket of his Russian colonel issue dress slacks. To think, all this was for a birthday party. Penkovsky thought he had better things too do than attend birthday parties. Russia had better things to be about than birthdays. He pulled his uniform’s coat closed buttoning the large brass clasps. He double checked his State Committee for Science and Technology ID badge. Unfortunately for Penkovsky, useful and interesting things were often accidentally divulged at birthday parties.

The music was getting louder. Penkovsky could not stay hidden away in the General’s lavatory forever. He had made his entrance earlier with General Ivan Serov the head of the Soviet Military Intelligence. Penkovsky had said, “If I’d known that being an intelligence officer would require me to attend all these parties…”

“You’d what?” asked Serov.

“I’d have rethought your invitation.”

“My invitations are not really invitations. Besides, parties are very useful. Vodka and friends are the best truth serum.”

“But here? Are we spying on our own countrymen?”

“Spy, bah, is such a western word. We safeguard. But, yes, we, you and I, must only think of what is best for the Soviet Union and ultimately Mother Russia.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that even I could, one day, unknowingly betray Russia, and that is why we exist and why we attend parties. You must learn to love cake, Oleg.”

Penkovsky did not hate cake, but he did not care for it either. Penkovsky loved women. Women were the real Russian delicacy. If there was a redeeming quality to parties, it was the women. At fifty-two, Penkovsky thought he had finally mastered the art of seducing women. Tonight he wanted Lena, the daughter of Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev. She was dressed in a white lace gown with her black hair piled and pined atop her head showing her long neck strong cheekbones.

“If you go down that road, even I will not be able to save you,” said Serov. “Have some more Vodka.

“Thank you,” Penkovsky took bottle and a glass. “Look at the way she holds herself. She is majestic.”

“She is dangerous.”

Penkovsky took a drink feeling the slick heavy oil caress his tongue before sliding down his throat. Servers emerged carrying trays of lamb and stewed tomatoes. They placed a plate and a small bowl in front of each guest, like dominoes conversations stopped and guest took their seats. When the last server exited and the door swung closed everyone stood and faced the head table.

Serov whispered, “I think you will like this.”

Penkovsky watched as Lena straightened her dress over her trim body. He might hate parties, but he loved party dresses. The way they showed off a woman’s shape, the way they fluttered as woman clicked by in her heals.

Premier Khrushchev stood last. “Today we are here to honor the sixty-second birthday of my good friend, Sergei Varentsov.” Premier Khrushchev turned to his left holding his wine glass high. “To Sergei, may he see many victories!”

The gathered guests cheered, “Victory,” and sat down.

“Thanks to the Chief Marshall’s missile program,” Premier Khrushchev continued pacing his hand on Varentsov’s shoulder, “It is time to strike a crippling blow to The West…”

Serov leaned back. “Now if you were really good, you’d already know what is coming, Oleg.”

Penkovsky stopped ogling Lena. This was another reason why he hated parties, important people making important announcements while the food got cold. He felt less than Russian preferring his food hot.

“…We’re going to close Berlin…”

Penkovsky chocked.

“…put up the barbed wire wall. The West will just stand there like dumb sheep.”

Penkovsky stood along with everyone else in the room, “For Russia!” He cheered with them.

Premier Khrushchev waved the room down. “You are the first to know.” He moved back behind his seat. “You are they only ones to know. Trucks, loaded with men and wire, are already on the move. We will show The West. We are strong!” He took his seat. “Now, eat, be merry.”

In true Russian style, the gathered sat without another word and began eating.

Penkovsky had forgotten about Lena. He opened his uniform’s coat and pulled out a small red monthly planner. He flipped to the back page labeled “Birthdays.” He scanned the down the page by Chief Marshall Sergei Varentsov’s, the next birthday listed was Jean, September 10^th. He closed the planner and his eyes. Jean Suiet and many of the bogus names listed on the birthday page were really code for his scheduled international technology gathering trips where he’d debrief his real employers, the American CIA. Jean meant that his next trip would be Paris.

Serov smiled. “Oleg, Oleg. You are not a good Russian. Leave business for later. Eat. Enjoy the Party.”

Penkovsky pursed his lips and picked up his fork and knife. “You are right.” He cut into his food. “You. You should have told me, you know.”

“I need to have some surprises.” He took his wine glass and smelled the wood and spice bouquet. “Keeping you on your toes is not easy, Oleg. Tonight gave me pleasure, knowing that I can still keep some secrets a secret.”

“You know Ivan. I might learn to like these parties.”

Commotion crowded the café.

“Merci.” I looked up, and the waitress tilted the pot upright. Her smile could have been a twitch. She nodded before stepping over to the next table. It seemed the whole neighborhood was here.

Our saucers clinked. I pulled mine toward me, pushed his toward him. Steam rose from the black liquid, and the aroma jolted me. I didn’t add sugar, but I stirred anyway.

Across from me, he scooted his chair closer to the table and apologized for being late. He picked up the sugar dispenser. White crystal granules cascaded in a tapered stream into his cup. He stirred, set down his spoon. He picked up his cup, then set it down. He saw me not paying attention.

He studied me as I surveyed the room.

A drowsy couple sat a few tables from us. The woman tried to catch her partner’s eye, but he peered at his cup, transfixed.

The waitress moved from their table. She carried that pot gracefully, efficiently, filling cup after cup, starting along the back wall. People smiled at her or thanked her, and she never said anything, only halfheartedly smiled back and nodded.

The grey sky muffled the midsummer morning; conversations became a steady grumble. A gentle wind sighed through the open doors and windows.

He snapped his fingers, bringing my eyes back to him.

I smiled politely. “Hi.”

His face had pleased me once upon a time, from his piercing eyes to his untamed hair to the squareness of his jaw to the cleft in his chin. I had known his countenance for years now.

His voice blended in with the chattering. I couldn’t hear everything he said, but I knew he was breaking up with me. He called last night. We agreed to meet here, at this time, for that reason. It didn’t surprise me.

He slid his saucer over a bit too quickly. A little bit of liquid lurched and sloshed onto the table.

I kept stirring.

A woman sat by herself over by the far window. She looked wistfully out at the plaza. An infused fog floated from the two cups at her table.

I returned my gaze to the man across from me. His mouth formed words that stuttered through the pervading interference, words about our not talking to each other, about our growing apart, about our interests changing.

About our not loving each other anymore.

What was I supposed to say?

Spoons swirled in cups all around me and tapped bent melodies on the brims. I had a peripheral awareness of how my wrist kept rotating, round and round, guiding the spoon, first clockwise, then the other way.

Bits of dialogue bounced around the room. The same, sad refrain swelled in hushed echoes and counterpoints throughout the crowd, like a fugue with a broken heart.

The nervous clatter from all the voices, the cups, the spoons, the coffee, jammed my ears.

He slid his saucer back in front of him.

My spoon kept moving, as did my eyes.

A woman at a corner table tore pieces of her croissant and dipped them in her coffee before eating them. The man sitting beside her leaned closer to her. His hands waved and pointed at something imaginary, which he seemed to be explaining.  He looked at her patiently. He shrugged.

Her eyes focused on her morning sop.

The man sitting across from me raised his cup to his mouth, pressed his bottom lip against the close edge and sipped. The liquid flowed between his teeth, and he swallowed. He sipped again. He closed his eyes while letting the coffee course through his body, his brain, his heart. He pursed his lips and exhaled.

I held my breath.

He set the cup down. He reached toward me and wrapped his clammy fingers around my hand.

He let go.

He sipped again.

Then, he drank deeply.

The waitress had begun to serve the center tables. She hadn’t taken a break; she hadn’t refilled the pot.  She poured cup after cup, gave nod after formal nod. No one refused her. The scent of the warm, dark nectar permeated the entire café and wafted outside, luring passersby to enter.

I put my spoon down on the saucer and looked back at the corner table. The woman was gone, her croissant was gone. The man that came with her looked confused and sullen. Lost. He scoped the café, perhaps wondering where his love went.

The man across from me said I’m a different person now, he asked where we went wrong, when I just stopped caring. He drank his coffee in between complaints of how I don’t meet his expectations, how boring our relationship has become, how much he has grown and improved and become a better person to make me happy; how I’ve made no effort to progress with him.

The waitress had already started bringing people their checks, outer tables first. Without breaking her stride, she placed a bill between our cups.

I took it. “Merci.”

The man from the corner table left. A few moments later, two ladies, separately, also departed.

The waitress returned to the serving station. Smirking, she leaned against the counter and poured herself a glass of orange juice.

As my eyes followed her, the man across from me expressed that I’m different but it’s not a good kind of different; how his perspective has changed and mine hasn’t, so I don’t see how much he feels sorry for me. I turned my head to face him. I strained to hear him as his voice merged with silence. He took one last gulp. He said I couldn’t even see him.

Suddenly, and for a long time, it was true.

The scene is a Pompeii in the making, a life caught with its pants down.  The coffee waits expectantly, a thin layer of dust coating the red tablecloth and the surface of the liquid, which long ago passed from hot to lukewarm to cold.

Over the edge of the table one dainty ginger paw lifts and muscles stretch until razor sharp claws snag what was once the crisp, flaky edge of a croissant.  Feline teeth pierce an exterior now hardened by time.  After devouring his share of the orphaned pastry in greedy, yet genteel, bites the cat lazily licks his whiskers, crouches and springs onto the table causing the dust to rise and glitter in the early light before disappearing again into itself.  Sidestepping the now empty plate he sits and raises a paw to his pink tongue.  The only sounds to be heard here are the purring of the cat and the buzzing of the flies.   A fly hovering above the table catches his amber eye.  Tensing, he leaps.  The fly escapes but the vase tips and falls to the cold, hard floor.

Dried flowers and ceramic pieces now lie beside the still and mottled hand of a woman.  A woman who had once waited expectantly alongside the coffee until that flash of light and sound like a million waves crashing caused her to rise from her seat.  It might have felt like being plunged into a vacuum.  It might have felt like the leap your heart makes the first time you fall in love.   It may have felt different to everyone, but in one exhalation the human race stopped loving, stopped breathing, crumbled beneath that otherworldly wave of light, and fell to the earth.  Now the woman lies like a doll without her stuffing, discarded, upon a beautiful marble floor.  A Pompeii in the making, only with no one left to discover it.  No one left to lament the horror and the beauty of what remains.  A large, fluffy tail brushes lightly against a lifeless hand as the ginger cat walks toward the sound of birds waking outside.