He always sits on the green vinyl chair. His fingers tap on the table and caress a smoke as he wonders at the daily crossword.
Sometimes he’ll glace up at me, sitting on his orange, polka dot chair and smile. Sometimes I raise my eyebrows at him, but mostly I do nothing. Just continue to stair into the coffee, in some vague hope it will answer all my questions.
We both know he stopped coming to my house because I wouldn’t let him smoke inside.
We both know I will never move in with him because he smokes inside.
He takes another drag and scribbles something into a box. A letter I presume.
As he does this, I can’t help but wonder; why am I sitting here? We do nothing. We see nothing. We go nowhere. Nothing changes.
He glances at me, and for the first time in a long time, I smile.
“Tell me.” I ask him, still smiling, still holding his gaze, “what’s Paris like this time of year?”
His eyes are going to burn holes into my head. I can see his cheeks burning, ever so slightly in anger.
When we first met, when this all began. I was going to travel. See the world. Live.
Then we fell in love, or something like that. And he controlled everything.
“Wouldn’t have a clue. Cold I’d say.” He narrows his eyes, “why?”
I just smile as I put my coffee cup on the sink.
“No reason. Just thought if you didn’t know, I’d have to find out for myself.” I kiss his cheek gently, “I’ll be back in a few years sweetheart. Don’t stay up. Oh, and for the record, Paris is meant to be nice this time of year.”