Reflections from the neon lights of the cafés surrounding the wharf wrinkle in the water in front of their table. The waiter removes the leftovers of their smoked salmon and salads. They sip the last glasses of the Merlot. Betty had advised against Merlot with salmon, but Paul had gone with it anyway.
At a table to Paul’s right, a blonde woman with penciled dark eyebrows and a swarthy man with slicked-back black hair lean into each other, their eyes engaged like there is nobody else in the universe. Paul tries not to look at them directly, but he can hear the seductive smiles in the lilt of their voices.
To his left, a mulatto woman sits with a squat Latino man whose sunbaked skin is darker than hers. They both lean back in their chairs listening to each other attentively and don’t appear romantically involved. The man is animated trying to make some point while the woman’s voice sounds skeptical. On the back of the man’s snagged and stained T-shirt is the picture of a sea turtle. Above the turtle is printed STAFF; below the turtle, La Grenadines, apparently the name of a yacht. The woman is wearing a newer version of the same shirt.
Both couples speak in French. Not that Paul can understand anything, but the melodious voices are soothing to him. When he closes his eyes, he imagines an opera, half spoken and half sung.
“What are you thinking?” Betty asks.
“I’m thinking how lucky you are to have met me.”
“I’m thinking you’re not going to be so lucky if you keep ignoring me.”
“Only kidding. I’m the lucky one.”
“Then why do I feel like trash when you look at me?”
Paul reaches for her hand, but she pulls it back.
He straightens in his chair. “Do you want to leave then?”
“No,” she says, although her face is still sullen, downcast. “I just want to be courted.” She motions with her eyes to the next table. The swarthy man had intertwined his arms with the blonde over the top of the table, their faces only inches apart. They sound like a prelude played with flute and oboe.
Paul forces a smile. “You won’t let me touch you. We can do that if you want.”
“No, we can’t.”
He reaches for her hand again and again she pulls back.
“You don’t love me,” Betty says with a pout.
“We just met. I don’t know you.”
“We can’t do that because we’re not in love.”
“We just met! Can’t you give it some time?” Paul snatches the napkin off his lap and throws it on his plate while looking about the café, everywhere but at Betty.
“You could never love me; I can tell already. And I don’t love you.”
“What do you want, for Christ’s sake?” He shifts his chair to face the harbor so he won’t have to face Betty and can’t see the couple. The boats in the harbor jerk at their moorings like edgy circus animals amid the fantasia of color reflected in the water by the lights.
“I’m ready to go,” she says dabbing at her eyes with a napkin.
“Me too.” Paul waves for the check.
“Don’t be mad. I’m sorry. I’m in a funk, I guess.”
“You weren’t in a funk before dinner.”
“No, it was them.”
When Paul looks over; the couple is all but having sex on the table.
“Then let’s get out of here. I’ll take you back to the resort,” he says pushing his chair back.
“Please don’t be mad.” Betty is trying to smile now. “Will you stay with me tonight?”
“For Christ’s sake!”
“In the dark, we can pretend to be in love.”
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