Of course, she must be beautiful, he thought listening to the dulcet tones of her voice. She was close, he knew that from the volume that reached his ears—at the next table perhaps. His fingertips slid across the cold surface of the table to the coffee cup, and lightly and expertly wrapped his hands around the warm porcelain, and raised it to his lips. The scent of roasted coffee and cream reached him before he tasted the warmth and richness of strong coffee.
“And it was lovely,” she said to a companion. “You have no idea until you are close to the paintings.” He leaned to the sound of her voice, so lyrical and light.
“Of course, the Louvre was too busy, and I could wander through the Monet Gallery at my leisure.”
He heard the companion ask something, and waited for her to elaborate with her impressions of the works of art that he had never seen.
“I got lost in the streets of Paris, in the ponds, and gardens. And then,” she added breathlessly, “I went close and it all disappeared into rainbows and brush strokes so tiny and saturated with colour that I couldn’t imagine the creation of such complex images.”
He smiled and sipped his coffee as though he was the companion that she spoke to, and he was there with her.
He listened intently to the conversation, lost in his imaginings; seeing her as a brunette, with shoulder length hair, well managed and soft. One strand would stray into her face as she gestured.
Her smile would be lovely, he thought. Sweet, but would slant provocatively on one side of her mouth, as though something of a cynic hid beneath the gentleness of her rose-coloured lips.
The conversation at the next table had moved on from the romance of Paris to the store fronts on this busy street of Montreal, and their preparations for spring, and the picnic in the park that the woman’s companion would take with her beleaguered boyfriend, whom accordingly did not appreciate the wonders of ardour.
Her eyes, he pondered, would be well positioned, and turned up ever so slightly at the edges. They would be large, but in a subtle way. He couldn’t see the colour in his mind’s eye, but knew they would sparkle with life and the essence of her being would shine through them.
A crooked nose perhaps, to offset her beauty slightly and give her features character.
He finished his coffee, and moved the cup to the centre of the table, reaching for his cane that rested against his leg. The cane’s rubber tip pressed into the floor, and he stood, his coat across his arm, and he turned towards the direction that the beauty sat.
“Excuse me,” he said, with a nervous smile. He waited for her to reply. “You have a lovely voice, and I hope you don’t mind that I have admired you,” and added with a grin, “blindly.”
He sensed her rise, and she touched the hand that rested on the cane, her perfume whispering around him; orchids and woody melodies, like filaments or fibres of a song. Mingled, and adding a citrus tone was the scent of peach shampoo, as she leaned towards him. And he knew instantly she was the only one for him.
“Thank you, sir,” she said sweetly, guiding him between the tables, before touching his arm. “My name is Carolyne,” she said quietly, as the noise from the café disappeared into muffled chatter and the low din of the espresso machine whirring into action. “I am here every Thursday at 2,” she added invitingly.
“Gerald,” he moved his hand in her direction, and she took it.
She’s smiling. He could feel the warmth of it. Her hand felt soft and firm, and his fingers grazed her nails that felt lacquered—Pink—he just knew they would be the pink of the most vibrant rose he could imagine; a pink rose, with tinges of tangerine blush along the ever so delicately curling petals.
“Pleased to meet you Carolyne; perhaps we’ll meet again.” He tried hard to find calm in his voice, and managed quite well to disguise his delight—or so he thought, and with a tap of the cane on the tile floor, he moved as eloquently as he could through the crowd, imagining that she watched him leave.
Oh, the sweet pleasure, he thought, as the cool spring air met him.
“Quite the handsome man,” Carolyne’s friend cradled the oversized coffee cup, and smiled as her friend took her seat.
“He is, and he can’t see this,” Carolyne moved her hair slightly revealing the long gash of wrinkled scar that blossomed across her cheek, not ending until it disappeared beneath her chin, now the colour of tea and straining scar tissue. She let her hair fall like a curtain to hide it again, tracing its journey with a red nail.
“Or this.” She raised her left hand, letting it fall heavily onto the table and Carolyne’s companion watched a patron move past. His eyes widened with shock at the sight of Carolyne’s oversized hand baring fingers of hideous distortion. A scone balancing on the full cup he carried quivered and threatened to drop onto Carolyne’s head, before composure was regained, and the scone rescued. Placing the coffee and scone on a table, he looked back and then adjusted his seat so as to look away, his face reddened.
Gerald’s cane tapped rapidly across the sidewalk, touching a planter on the left, a light standard on the right and he smiled upwards at the people he sensed moving around him—most he knew would not gaze into his face for the embarrassment that disability prompted.
