She sat there in her Jackie O’s, and while I could not see her eyes, I’d like to think that she sat there unblinking. We faced each other from tables apart, but she was unconcerned with me. No, the object of her immediate attention sat between the two of us. He at her table, his back to me. There was little doubt that it was her table, and everyone in the cafe knew it.
The scene was a lover’s quarrel of sorts. She, in her Jackie O’s, grim, unsmiling. Composed and dignified. Beautiful in a classic way. He, the suitable companion for the moment, young and tan, hip and trendy. He was the flavor of the month, a fact obvious to everyone in the café. Everyone but him, that is, he thought he still had a chance. It was apparent in his body language, the passionate way that he held himself as he pleaded, that he was in the grasp of true emotion. She, on the other hand, in her composed and unsmiling fashion, had already dismissed him from her life. She sat upright, the picture of perfect posture, one toned leg crossed over the other, her hands folded neatly in her lap when not lifting the stained porcelin coffee mug to her dark red lips; she cut him to ribbons.
He’d stated his case, rationally are first, and passionately as he could sense his impending failure. Remember the good times, remember the laughs, the smiles, the hand holding. The stolen kisses on dark beaches. You’re not right for me, she’d replied. She was cold and efficient, and I did not envy his position. He’d done his best, but sometimes a man’s best is no match for a woman’s desires. A fact momentarily lost on Flavor of the Month.