Stories, Thoughts and Snippets
Cafe Culture 1 Cafe Culture 2 Cafe Culture 3 Cafe Culture 4
Perhaps I simply did not like growing old, I am told nobody likes to grow old. This felt like more than that to me. I should have been able to be alone for most of the day for a week or two, it should not have bothered me in such a serious way. These trips made me feel that there was something wrong in my life, something that I did not feel when I was at home. When I could call my children and they would come with their families to join us for dinner.
"Encore, Madame?"
"Non, merci. Je vai prend un kir. S il vous plait." I ordered a sweet aperitif made with white wine and a black currant licqour. We were not practicing Muslims, but at home it was very frowned upon to drink alcohol, and Jibril discouraged me from doing so. When abroad I liked to indulge in a few drinks, more in remembrance of my past than for their effect. Alcohol only made my situation seem more isolated.
I watched the waiter go, I would have flirted with him if I were younger, he was attractive, but in a very intentional way. He knew his better attributes and worked to emphasize them, his hair was rough in a way that must be intentional, he carried himself with a practiced slowness and confidence, which did not quite look natural. He was projecting an image and he wanted those who observed it to know. He was the sort of waiter who was looking for a woman that wanted to be noticed by her waiter, I d wager he did reasonably well for himself.
Et voila, Madame.
Merci.