The two young women sitting across from each other at a small café table were undeniably cut from the same pattern, like that of a quilted doll. Both girls had round cheeks and smooth foreheads, which gave both an air of noble wisdom and childish innocence. The brown-haired girl sat back in her chair, with her hands set across her lap, palms uplifted. The blonde sat forward on her seat and spoke as though she were painting a pane of glass with her stories, letting her blue eyes tell the other half. Her sister's eyes--the same blue sea glass eyes, deep-set and round as marbles--smoldered with an unspoken passion, but her close-mouthed smile betrayed neither jealousy nor admiration.
He sat three tables over, watching the American girls, falling in love with each word. If he had been able to hear the fair-haired girl's story, he wouldn't have understood; French was all he knew of the world. But beauty knew no language, and he had never seen young girls so unblemished and golden. He gazed longingly at the long white fingers the blonde girl was waving around, creating stars at each fingertip. She was open and excited, a mischievous angel. She was easy to fall in love with. The other young woman, though, was harder to crack. She was intense, but stoic. Her body was taut, as though she were about to bolt through the café door and streak down Rue St-Benoit. When he looked at her, he saw a vibrating bottle of jazz riffs, tied end to end one to the other, knotted up and ready to explode. He gasped, suddenly, realizing he'd been holding his breath.
Summer in Paris was coming to an end, the light dying earlier than it had the day before and later than it would the next night. He wanted to love them, but he was too old. He wanted to speak of devotion, but he didn't have the words with which to profess it. So, instead, he gathered up his burlap bag and walked toward their table. The blonde stopped speaking and both girls looked up at him with their sea glass eyes as he put the bag on their table. Now that he stood next to their table, he discovered that the dark-haired girl had an unrefined splash of freckles across her nose and the blonde's skin was maybe a bit too oily. Moreover, her accent was a touch harsh, and her hands looked much older than her face. His heart sank a little; these women were just like all the other women he passed on the street: a little worn and even a little more ordinary. But the moment was over almost as soon as it had hit him. The old man loved them--had from the start--and he was willing to wait for the ethereal ladies he had first seen to reappear.
He wanted to give them something but had little more than a handful of bashful French words to whisper. Instead, he put all he had on the table; from his bag he extracted three melons and five tomatoes. The sisters sat stunned, staring long at the produce that had come to keep their coffee cups company. After several seconds that stretched beyond comfort, the sisters burst into a simultaneous chorus of laughter, harmonizing the sound of a staccato flute with the mellow meandering of a marimba. His heart swelled; their scorn wasn't even enough to change his mind.
All at sea, the old man went in search of a song. If he could not satisfy his appetite, an excess of music might just be enough to kill it.
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