July 30, 2020

The Woman in the Cafe

The woman in the cafe was reading my book. She was a tall elegant woman with a black shawl wrapped around her shoulder. She was not wearing sunglasses, because she had removed them to read my book, but she had a pair of those big oversized sunglasses which Princess Grace of Monaco and Jackie Onassis used to wear.  She was dipping her croissant into her cafe au lait like the French do. She did look French, but I was hoping she were Swiss. I’m not sure why.  We were more than the required six feet away, but I could see she was reading the third edition, the one with the green cover, and I was pleased about that, because it was the best edition and had almost no typos.

It was a nice scene. One I had envisioned many times. A cultured woman of letters taking a mid-morning break from high-brow literature and philanthropic activities to snack on my little vignettes together with her coffee and croissant. I soaked it in along with the sunshine which was warming this late fall day.

I craned my neck a little to see how much she had read and whether I could determine which story she had landed upon. She hadn’t laughed or smiled yet, which was understandable because not all of the stories were humorous.

But still.

She must have felt my gaze, I guess I had been staring for quite a long time, because she looked up, put the book down and addressed me directly.

“Can I help you?” she said as she put on her glasses. It wasn’t a waitress taking your order ‘can I help you?’ It was a step-off-creep ‘can I help you?’ which I frankly found to be a little harsh.

Also, she was neither French nor Swiss. Her voice was Toronto through and through.

I quickly apologized and explained I was just noticing the book she was reading. Was she enjoying it?

Just then an itinerant cloud blocked the sun and I felt a sudden chill.

Just as she said, “Not so much. A friend bought it for me and said I might like it, but I don’t know what she was thinking.”

Okay then.

Well, that was that.

“Okay,” I said, “Sorry to have troubled you. Have a nice day.”

Which should have ended this ephemeral conversation, but then she decided to add, “Thanks. This book is not helping.” Then she took off her glasses, put them down on the table, and resumed reading the book.

My book.

The sky was really clouding up. Looked like we might even get some rain.

Well, not everyone was going to like the book. It was what it was.

But, of course, I could not let it go.

I said, “I’m terribly sorry to bother you again, but if the book is so bad, why are you still reading it?”

She put down the book, put her glasses back on and said, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I am the type of person who finishes a book no matter how bad it is.”

And I said, “Okay.”

But she wasn’t done. “Also, I have nothing else to read, so if I didn’t have this book, I might end up bothering people at nearby tables like you are doing.”

Well, I was now truly chastened and put in my place.

So I said, “Actually, I wrote it. That is my book.”

I said it just to make her feel bad. I’m not proud of it.

She flipped the book around and examined the author picture, put on her sunglasses, I guess they might have been prescription, and looked at me, took off her sunglasses, examined the author picture again, put her sunglasses back on and said:

“You don’t look as good as in your picture. You kinda need a haircut.”

So much about making her feel bad.

“What don’t you like about the book?” I was now clearly a glutton for punishment.

She said, “You really want to know?”

And I said, “Yes.” Although I really didn’t.

She said, “Look, it’s not like you are a bad writer. It’s just you don’t know what you want to be. Are you writing fiction? Are you writing memoirs? Just make up your mind and pick one thing.”

“I blur the line between fact and fiction,” I said, quoting one of my reviews.

“It is confusing,” she said, “and actually pretty annoying. Friends appearing in your fiction and fictitious characters in your memoirs. It is all a little too much. Sorry. But you asked.”

“Okay,” I said, “I think that’s fair.”

“Okay,” she replied. “You seem very nice. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“Quite okay,” I said. “No harm done. Besides, I think I am going to write you out of this story.”

And she said, “You’re what?”

I said, “Well, this story really isn’t going where I had hoped. I think I am just going to write you out of it.”

“You are going to write me out of it?”

I said, “Yeah. This is one of those stories when a fictitious character appears in my real life. It is made up. I really didn’t meet a woman in a cafe reading a book.”

“But you did.”

“Not so much. I made the whole thing up.”

“Aren’t we like halfway through the story?”

“Will give it a quick edit. Happens all the time.”

“Well,” she said with a huff, “it all seems a little capricious.”

“Pretty big word for a fictitious character,” I said.

She angrily returned to her book. I ordered a croissant of my own from the waitress who had sweetly said, “Can I help you?”

Okay. So it was petty. I admit it. But she pushed my buttons. I could write in a much more sympathetic character. Easily. What did I need that aggravation for?

We sat there in silence for about five minutes. We were both stewing.

Then she looked up and said, “Your mother’s eulogy was quite sweet.”

I said, “Thanks.”

“And that mattress story was pretty funny.”

I said, “Thanks.”

“And all the Egypt stuff was quite interesting. I didn’t mind that.”

I said, “Thanks. So maybe not that bad?”

She said, “Maybe.”

We sat in silence for a few more minutes. Then she said, “I know it is now moot, but how did you describe me?”

“How did I describe you?”

“Yes.”

I scrolled up.

“Hmm. Here it is. Tall and elegant.”

“Tall and elegant?”

“Yes.”

“You make me sound matronly.”

“Oh no. It wasn’t my intention.”

“You could have said beautiful. It wouldn’t have killed you to say beautiful.”

I was now a little dumbstruck. Things had started moving in the right direction, but now they were taking a turn for the worse.

“Well,” I stuttered, “you were quite far away. And you were wearing your sunglasses.” I knew the minute I said it that it was both a lie and a mistake.

“My sunglasses? My sunglasses? I wasn’t wearing my sunglasses. You weren’t paying attention to me. You were only interested in your precious book!”

“Well I—well I—” I stammered. But it was too late. She left some change on the table and stormed off.

Well. That was a shame.

I finished the rest of my croissant and left.

I was right about the rain. It started just as I left the cafe. It wasn’t a long walk home, but I didn’t want to get drenched, so I put on my mask and jumped on the downtown bus.

The woman in the seat in front of me was reading my book.

It was the first edition. The one with all of the typos.

But still.

You never know.

I scrolled back up a few sentences and made the change.

There was a really beautiful woman in the seat in front of me reading my book.

The end.