Table for Three by Jillian Taylor
Oblivious to the tables set only for two crowding the restaurant, a young couple dances in the middle of the room. I think they would dance that close and that slow even if they had a ballroom. An older couple at a neighboring table does not seem to mind; they hold hands and periodically smile and glance at the dancers. The ancient man folded over the small piano in the corner openly disdains the dance. He sighs audibly every time he finishes a song and they remain embraced. He sighs and begins another song.
Richard is still talking to the waiter. The waiter had nodded to him first when he approached our table and Richard insisted on ordering. He speaks only rudimentary French and with an unintelligible accent. The waiter plays along, using English when he can. There is a lot of pointing, of shaking fingers at the menu as they puzzle out what Richard wants. I restrain my fingers from drumming the table, content to shake my foot beneath the tablecloth instead. I could have already ordered our meal and the wine by now. Finally, Richard laughs and the waiter nods vigorously. Richard says oui about ten times and bon, like in the oven, at least five. He has decided. They both turn to me. I order quickly and efficiently. I am about to include the wine for our meal when the waiter interrupts with a raised hand. Richard has already chosen our wine. I nod and he leaves.
Richard compliments the restaurant I chose. I tell him the conference held a late supper here one evening and I enjoyed the chicken. He asks about all the little tables. Did they make us break into pairs? Were we supposed to learn something new about our partner and then share with the group afterward? I sigh. Of course they pushed tables together. He chuckles then is distracted when the sommelier presents the wine. Richard spends an excessive amount of time in this charade. He reads the label in incomprehensible French and nods formally. He accepts the cork and sniffs appreciatively. The sommelier pours a mouthful into the deep glass, holds it aloft by the stem, and swirls the wine briskly. The light dances in the translucent carnelian as the wine pirouettes. The glass is presented and Richard too holds it aloft.
There was a meal here after a long day of seminars and meetings when I last visited Paris. It was March and the cold wind kept me inside the restaurant long after the others had left. I sat alone, deciding between another glass of wine and a café to warm me. A man sat down in the empty chair at my table and instructed the waiter to bring another bottle. We had spoken after the morning session. We didn’t say much, just banalities about the abhorrent speaker with the bad moustache, but he stood close while we talked. He looked like how I supposed Byron must have looked, with black, tousled hair and green eyes. If I had been able to choose the attributes of my mate, the eyes would be that green. His full lips balanced his Gallic nose. Up close he was mesmerizing. The candles reflected in his eyes and I noticed a small scar above his left eyebrow. He flung his jacket over the chair and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing his forearms. His muscles tensed as he pushed the small vase of rose buds to the side of the table.
A pretty lady should not sit alone, he said. May I join you? he asked. He extended his arm and I gave him my hand. He turned his hand under, pulled me forward. His lips were smoother than I imagined, softer than possible, grazing over the sensitive skin of my hand. He turned my hand over and kissed my palm, then each of my fingers. Like a Victorian paramour, with his head lowered he gazed up at me and said, my name is Luc. It can take a surprisingly long time to say that name, despite being only three letters. The L begs to be elongated, the tongue held against the roof of the mouth gently until it finally descends into the breath-filled U. The soft, quiet C, like a whisper, like an afterthought, ends the name when you are ready to let go.
The sommelier returned with Luc’s request and became confused when Luc insisted he leave the wine opened but not poured. He pouted, quickly uncorked the bottle and thumped it on the table. Richard never controlled a situation with such grace. Luc still held my hand. He kissed my wrist where my pulse leaped. I pulled my hand away and sat back in my chair. I didn’t know how far to allow him to go. Luc picked up the bottle to pour wine into both our glasses. As I lifted my glass to smell the pungent aroma of the Burgundy, Luc took it from my hand. He set the glass on the table and dabbed his thumb inside, covering the pad of his finger with a film of wine. He raised his finger to my lips. Better than sniffing, he said.
Richard finally finishes admiring the wine. He rests the wineglass against his mouth, inhaling deeply. His eyes flicker. Richard empties the serving into his mouth and swishes the wine around, holding it against each cheek, biting the wine between his teeth, at last swallowing. His smile encourages the sommelier to pour him more and to serve me. After bowing smartly, the sommelier retires. I slide my glass closer and dip my finger. I raise it to my mouth and swipe the wine across my tongue. Richard is frozen about to take a sip; he watches over the rim of his glass. What was that? he asks. Better than sniffing, I say. His eyebrow arches and he reaches for my hand. Really? he asks.
Richard’s cell phone vibrates on the tablecloth. With a disappointed look, he releases my hand with the damp finger. The office should be getting ready to close, he says, this is the last phone call of the day; nothing after this. He picks up his phone and walks to the bar. He stands facing me, his back against the bar, his foot propped on the brass rail near the floor. Richard speaks quickly into the phone, issuing orders to his secretary and making decisions for his colleagues to act upon. They are inert without his heavy hand. A young woman, a blonde, sits at the bar two chairs away. She turns her head to look at Richard. Her profile is delicate and feminine; her hair is swept into a loose chignon. I purse my lips as she slides out of her high chair and crosses the short distance to stand in front of him. Richard, still on the phone, smirks at me over her shoulder. As he finishes his phone call, she speaks to him. Richard remains still as the woman smoothes his tie, fusses with the knot. He smiles at her, uses his head to motion toward me. She turns slightly, finds me in the restaurant, and does not seem impressed. I hear myself exhaling sharply. She faces him again and says something; he laughs. Richard shakes his head and walks toward me.
Suddenly, my nose jumps. I look around the restaurant searching for the source. Richard sees me inhale deeply. He arrives at our table and asks if the smoke is bothering me. No, I say, actually, I think I wouldn’t mind having one. He reminds me that I haven’t smoked since the children were born. I remind him that we are in France where everyone smokes and I feel like being bad. Could he run out and buy a pack before our food arrives? Richard remembers passing a tobacco stand on the walk over. He leans down to me, brushes his thumb over my lower lip, then kisses me softly. The taste of the wine, sour from convalescing in his mouth, lingers.
I remember that smell. Luc smoked Turkish tobacco that he rolled into cigarettes. I loved to watch him make his cigarettes. He could roll them tightly with one hand, his agile fingers coaxing the paper to lay flat. He never lost any tobacco either as he rolled. Luc tried to teach me once but I failed miserably, even with two hands. I did enjoy smoking them though. The unfiltered smoke burned on the way in, creating an aromatic buzz that was foreign but not unwelcomed.
The smoke seems to be coming from near the bar. A man with black hair sits with his back to me, gesticulating with a white cigarette. A stunning woman in a blue dress is across from him smiling. I can’t tell if it is Luc. It could be Luc. He lives near here and I know he came to this restaurant before the conference ever happened. What if it is Luc? I watch him stub out his cigarette in the ashtray and rise. He walks around the table to help the woman with her coat. It isn’t Luc.
Richard returns and lays the pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the table. Our waiter materializes with an ashtray. I thank Richard, open the pack and jokingly offer it to him; he doesn’t smoke. He takes two. Richard holds them both between his lips and flicks the lighter on. After a few quick puffs, he releases the lighter and hands me one of the cigarettes. It tastes like red wine and him. I didn’t know you smoked, I say. He shrugs, inhales deeply and blows three thin rings. Learn something new, he says.
The sommelier stops by to pour more wine for us. Richard holds his wineglass in his left hand while he finishes taking a drag. I was thinking, he says. He affects a terrible French accent, the one he uses when he pretends to be a dirty old man. Maybe I should be your French lover tonight?
I exhale and drink some wine, most of the wine in my glass. Our table is near the front of the restaurant which has ten-foot glass doors instead of a wall and I see my reflection against the night outside. I’ve seen this before. On our first night together, Luc came back to my hotel after our late meal. My room had French doors to a balcony that overlooked the street below. Luc turned on all the lamps in my room and pulled back the curtains. Only after my clothes were on the floor did I realize I could see our reflection. I enjoyed watching Luc undress me from behind. Once I was fully naked, Luc pressed me against the doors. I held on to the frame and, that close to the glass, could finally make out the shadows on the street below. I panicked and tried to move away from the glass doors; I didn’t want anyone to see. Luc held me still, distracting me with kisses. He murmured in my ear in French: you are beautiful, you should want to be seen. We stayed at the windows. At some point, Luc began kissing my left hand and it suddenly felt lighter. He had slipped off my wedding band and tossed it on the rug. Before I could protest, Luc told me that my engagement ring had scratched him the night before. As he slid that ring off my finger he said the band had to go to get to this one.
I remember too well the feeling of his body, of his hands. He loved to spend hours touching me, watching my reactions. When we were at our hottest, I would feel the ice cold band around his own finger slicing a path across me. I never asked him to remove his ring, although every night I removed mine. I never asked him her name because he never asked for Richard’s.
Richard raises an eyebrow and his glass, waits for an answer. I tell him yes. He looks a little surprised but pleased. Continuing his accent he says, if I am to be your Frenchman, I will need a French name. Jean-Claude, perhaps? Maybe Henri? I smile and look at the gold band glittering in the candlelight. What about Luc?
Jillian Taylor is a writer from King of Prussia, PA. She is pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing at Rosemont College in Rosemont, PA. Her other short fiction has been published in Short Fiction World and Menda City Review, and is forthcoming at NO POSIT. She is currently at work on her first novel about an assassin who can no longer kill.
