“France”

Leo Wiggins

            “Let’s go to France.”

A few lamps sit complacently around the bar in such a way as to provide a dim light, no matter which stool you choose as a seat. Despite the peculiarity of speaking with a stranger, I choose to respond after a short pause.

            “Excuse me?” I say, keeping my gaze fixed forward on the arranged bottles of varying size, color and shape displayed behind the counter. The bartender has been cleaning the same single glass for the last fifty minutes off to the side in the shadows to avoid drawing attention to himself.

            “France. I want to go to France,” she says very decisively, turning her body to face me. I look at her for a moment. Her earrings are set with black stones, which seem to seep orange light, subjected to the dusty yellow ambience of this small, underground café. I keep my eyes on them as I take a sip of my coffee, which has been cold for a while. I honestly hadn’t noticed her sitting next to me until she spoke. For some reason or another, however, it seems I’m not surprised to see her. Was I expecting somebody?

The air in my mouth and lungs is turning stale.

            “Then go to France,” I say, taking another sip. I look down at the counter, which has a dull sheen, like wood cut from a metal tree. Something about all of this strikes me as almost insultingly abnormal.

            “Don’t you want to come with me?” she asks, leaning onto the counter and looking up at me. It’s a very youthful gesture, and I can’t help but wonder about her age. She carries herself with a discernable maturity, but she can’t be more than twenty-five years old. Her dress has a neck strap, leaving her shoulders bare. I’ve always appreciated these sorts of dresses, mostly because the shoulders are very nice to look at, on most people. She tilts her head.

            “Who are you?” I ask, turning to face her, our knees almost touching.

            “Let’s go to France together, just you and me. It’ll be great.”

            “Who are you?” I ask again, tasting the words as they slip off of my tongue. They taste green and sweet. She shifts on her stool, straightening her back, and picks up her cup. I let my question float in the air, hoping she’ll notice it.

            “I’m sorry about your dog,” she says simply. I blink. That’s not an answer. And never mind that-- how did she know about my dog’s recent and untimely death? Despite my frantically questioning mind, she really does look sorry, and so I back down, my questions unanswered. I suppose I’m fine with that.

            “Don’t worry about it,” I say, my voice soft and smooth.

            “You must be sad, he was only six-“

            “Don’t worry about it,” I repeat, louder this time, with a clear emphasis on worry.

            “He was so cute.” She’s fiddling with her bracelet, which shimmers like living metal, dancing in circles around her delicate wrist.

            “Why France?” There is a slight pause between these two statements.

            “Do you not like France? What about Germany then? If I recall correctly, you’ve been wanting to go there. Her voice is like bubbles overflowing from a forgotten bathtub, sinking into the wood and rotting the hardwood floor.

            “I don’t even know you.” My eyes are cold as I flex my hands, resisting the urge to tend to an itch on the back of my neck.

            “I’ve heard Munich is nice this time of year. The snow should be thick . . .” Her voice, which seems to come to me over a far distance, trails off as she orders another cup of whatever dark liquid she’s drinking.

            “I’ve got a wife and kids-“ I begin, but my voice doesn’t sound right, like it’s not my own.

            “You know you want to.”

            “I don’t know anything.”

            “I know you want to.”

            “I don’t even know you! We’ve never met before today!”

            “Why does it matter? Come with me.”

            “How did you know about my dog?”

“It wasn’t hard to find out.”

I stare at her in disbelief. Fear’s claws hook into my lungs, and pull them tight, restricting my breath. Have you been following me? I want to demand, as my hands clutch the counter, as if I would fall to my death if I let go. I don’t scream or shout, however. It won’t do me any good. I know it.

“Calm down,” she says, her eyes glacial with an undeniable logic and reason. I begin to breathe deeply. “Order another drink, and calm down.” I order a new cup of coffee, even though my current cup is still half full.

            The minutes pass by slowly as I drink, my nerves settling. For a little while, we’re quiet, neither of us speaking. Slowly, I start becoming uncomfortable with the silence, and I find it almost frightening that I want to hear her voice. I can’t take it any longer, so I speak.

            “So, do you know me?”

She swirls her drink calmly, drawing out the silence. Her eyes are still cold, but her expression is soft.

            “I’ve known you for a very long time,” she says, as she taps her fingers on the wood. She seems distracted now, and I can’t help but feel jealous of whatever has stolen her attention. My eyes search for the cause, but I find nothing.

            “How long?” I ask, trying to maintain the conversation, and, more importantly, my connection with this woman. Her tone seems rehearsed, but maybe it’s just me.

            “I’ve known you for just over a year and two months. It was the August of the year before last that I first met you.”

            “That was just about when my grandfather died,” I say, recalling the general details of that particular funeral. The faces of those who attended have long since rubbed away, leaving vacant fleshy blobs where mouths, noses and eyes ought to be. All that’s left is a rainy day cloaked in melancholy, a dismal mood lurking among the mass of people, who all sport crisp black suits, and emerge dramatically from a line of black Cadillac cars, that slink by— beetles with shiny hard carapaces in this horrid rainfall.

            “Then . . . were you at the funeral?”

            “I was indeed. Your grandfather was a good man, and I had to pay my respects.” She says this with a smile. For some reason or another, a chill climbs my spine, one vertebrate at a time, climaxing in my neck and causing me to shiver. I take another sip of coffee, struggling to maintain composure. She’s fallen quiet again. I take hold of my drink, the warmth seeping into my hands like a virus, and stare into the shapeless darkness in the pure white cup. The depth of the liquid itself stares back at me, holding my gaze, matching me one for one. I feel insignificant compared to this cup of coffee. What a life indeed.

            I look back at her, and immediately regret it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that as time moves forward, she’s been getting more and more beautiful. My heart stirs as I watch her massage some unknown ache from her neck. Her hair is cut short, with two simple elegant earrings swinging lightly, as if being pushed by some unfelt wind.

            She has her eyes closed, so I continue to watch her fingers moving lightly over the entirety of her neck, very slightly brushing her raven black hair, which shimmers darkly in this light. She stops, and opens her eyes. When she looks over at me, I’m staring at my coffee.

            As time goes on, the silence stretches out from between us to encapsulate the entire building, the entire city block, and the city, finally fully encompassing the planet, every sound killed off. That’s how it feels to me, as I sit uneasily on my stool.

            “France . . .” I say, my voice cracking out into the distance, the whisper echoing and building, rocketing through this silent planet, like an alarm clock, waking everybody and everything. I’m sure, somewhere, there is sound.

            “France,” she responds, a slight smile flickering across her features. I can see she’s trying not to be too excited.

            “I suppose life has been a bit dull,” I say, stretching in my seat. Something has changed.

            “I’m glad you think so,” she begins, picking up a small purse from the floor. It matches her dress. “I want to leave now, if it’s alright with you.”

            “I suppose I don’t have anything against that,” I say, standing up slowly. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot something in my seat. I turn, but what I saw before has disappeared. Before I can decide what it was, her hand finds mine, and, smiling, she pulls lightly towards the exit of the café. I resist only for a few moments, staring at my stool. I get the distinct feeling that there’s something there I’m not seeing. What’s wrong with all of this?

            I give in to her steady pull, and walk towards the exit. Ultimately, I am unable to figure it out, so I give up trying. We all have our ‘off’ days, afterall.

            “This last Saturday,” begins the newscaster, speaking through the small speakers on the portable television, “a young man was found dead in his seat at a local Underground Café, ‘Eden Hall’. Cause of death has not yet been determined, but officials say it shouldn’t be long now before it’s known exactly how this individual passed away. We’ll check in on that again at eleven. And now a traffic report.

            Many miles away, along an interstate freeway, an old truck driver is driving his truck through the night, a solitary beacon in the blackness. A woman is next to him in the passenger seat, a woman he’s never met before. Her presence, however, doesn’t surprise him.

‘Was I expecting somebody?’

He asks himself this question over and over again as he steals glances over at her, as she fiddles with a fancy looking bracelet. She speaks.

            “Let’s go to France.”