Eating Out

He returned to the hotel early in the morning. The sky was grey wit rain and the light was pale. The hotel was an old stone building, which appeared dark in the early light. London moved around him, in a buzz. He wore thin clothes, and the air was wet and cold.

“Good morning sir,” said the main watching the door to the hotel.

“I may yet be, yes,” the man said, passing through the open glass door. He walked through the round red lobby, which was empty, past lounge chairs and fake, deceitful plants to a bank of gold elevators. He took the first one to the seventh floor, listening to the soft hum of show tunes playing from a speaker. When the doors opened, he walked down the narrow hallway to room 717. He quietly opened the door and entered the suite.

The room was dark, with faint light coming through the cracks in the curtains. They shook in the wind that came through the open patio doors they covered, casting the light in elongated bars. He walked across the room to the bed against the far wall, stripping as he did. He pulled back a down comforter quietly and slowly, so as not to disturb the sleeping woman in the bed. She stirred, as he laid down an covered himself. She groaned and sighed and stretched as he lay on the pillows.

“Good morning, dear.”

“Morning,” he said sleepily. She lifter her head in the half dark.

“Wasn’t my head on your chest when I fell asleep?

“You must have moved.”

“You know I hardly move when I sleep.”

“Then I must have moved.” She turned to him. Her eyes shone briefly in the light. The smell of rain was fresh at the window.

“I’m thirsty,” she said, rubbing his hair.

“I think there’s whiskey in here.”

“Whiskey? In the morning?”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” She sat up fully in bed.

“Max, are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Do you want some whiskey?

“No, I don’t want any.”

“Well, I want some.” He climbed out of bed and walked to the wooden bar adjacent to the bed. Naked, he poured a half glass of Scottish whiskey. He searched in vain for ice and found none, and returned to the bed. They met eyes as he drank.

“Are you sure you don’t want some? It’s good this morning.”

“As opposed to when, sweetheart?”

“Lunch, dinner, midnight, whenever. It’s good this morning.” She was bent over him now, looking him up and down.

“Is there something wrong, darling?”

“Nothing a little whiskey can’t fix.” A flash crossed her eyes.

“It was a joke, a joke! We’re in London. It’s a beautiful city. There is much to do in London, like have a glass of whiskey in the morning.” She stared at him for several moment before climbing out of bed, put on a robe, and left the room. He listened to the trees on the street now rustle in the wind, sipping whiskey. It wasn’t the same without ice. He felt the cool breeze on his bare shoulders. The curtains lifted in a gust of wind as if someone had grabbed the hem and lifted it.

The wind slammed the door as the women returned. She had her hands cupped and gently climbed into the bed. She leaned over and dropped a few, perfectly shaped cubes into his glass. A little whiskey splashed on his chest.

“Ice?”

“Well, dear, you can’t have a drink without ice.” He stared at the ice in the brown liquid.

“Thank you,” he said, sipping the cold drink. He saw her frown as light crossed her face.

“Why are you drinking that now?”

“I told you.”

“But it doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t? This is London, the city of love. Enjoy it, live it, drink it.”

“Paris is the city of love, darling.”

“Well, London is full of love too.”

“Come on, let’s just go get breakfast. She stroked his grizzled cheek and kissed him gently on the lips. He saw her eyes close passionately.

He finished the whiskey and the both dressed. She pulled on a ochre dress, because it would soon warm up outside, and a tweed sweater. He wore jeans and a flannel, with a nice shirt underneath it, and picked up his old clothes and threw them into one pile. He placed the glass at the bar. The woman went to make the bed.

“The housekeeping does that. Don’t worry with it,” he said. She placed her earrings in and reached for her makeup, but stopped.

“Put it on.”

“Not for hotel breakfast. That’s a waste.”

“Put it on. We’ll go somewhere.”
“Go somewhere? Where?

“Somewhere. Somewhere nice. It is our last day in London.” She smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him again.

“Sounds good.” They left the hotel and came to the street. The grey, threatening rain clouds had dispersed, and were replaced by a cool blue sky. The shops and cafés were opening, their chairs set down off the tables, and the smell of coffee and sounds of fying grease reached to streets. They walked hand in hand down Oxford Street, past shopping outlets and stores. They approached a café that was already filling with people.

            “This one seems popular. We should go here.” The woman smiled brightly, and they quickly got a seat out near the street, behind a short iron fence. The host poured them orange juice and coffee and gave them each a warm biscuit until their waiter arrived.

            “This is nice,” she said, looking around.

            “Yes, very nice.”

            “We need to do this more. Wouldn’t it be beautiful to eat breakfast every morning in Paris, and in Italy? And it is summer. It smells so fresh and wonderful, and everything is so green.”
“Yes, it does. Why not? We can eat breakfast in Paris.”

“I mean eat a French breakfast, darling.”

“And French wine.”

“Not with breakfast dear.” They both stirred cream into their coffee’s, and sipped it. They saved the orange juice for their meals.

            They were silent now and stared at people passing by, sipping coffee in the early morning. It was just cool enough outside for steam to rise from the glass cups. They watched as people in the apartments high above the street opened their curtains. The woman was thrilled by all of this. She couldn’t look away. Max drank his coffee and examined the table; its white tablecloth, the glasses of yellow orange juice, the red carnation in a vase in the center.  He watched the woman, who played with her light brown hair, which was cut to trace her jawbone. Her forehead was exposed and tall, and her lips red and eyes as blue as the sea the island they were on floated in. The cool blue sweater she wore fell just past her breasts. She turned to catch him staring around at her. Her cheeks blushed.

            “What?” she smiled. He continued to stare at her.

            “Nothing, nothing dear.” She frowned.

            “Hello there. Sorry about the wait. Can I get you anything?” The waitress said, appearing out of no where.

            “Oh it’s no trouble at all,” the woman exclaimed. Max, for the first time, picked up a menu and examined it. “I’ll have the eggs benedict with a hash-brown, if it’s not too much trouble,” the woman said with a laugh. The waitress scribbled the order down, the pen scratching loudly. She paused.

            “Wait, Irene Green?” The waitress sounded bewildered. Irene studied her for a moment.

            “Katy Evans. Michigan State,” Irene exclaimed. “My oh my. It’s been so long.” She stood up and hugged Katy, and they spoke loudly to each other. Their words were lost to Max, who continued to study the menu.

            “And you sir? What can I get this wonderful woman’s husband?” Max looked up from the men and froze when he saw Katy. So did she. He saw the wrinkles from where her smile had been half a second ago. Max’s mouth flapped like a fish gasping for air.

            “I, just eggs and white toast.” He didn’t say how he wanted the eggs, but Katy nodded and turned on her feet quickly. Irene frowned.

            “What was that about?” she said, half laughing.

            “Nothing. I don’t know. Nothing.”

            “You’re acting weird again. You’re not going to order a whiskey, are you?

            “Or two.” She leaned back from the table.

            “Darling, you have to tell me what the matter is.”

            “Nothing. I promise you.” She stared at him but sat back in her chair, crossing her legs. Her foot bobbed up and down. She scanned the café looking for Katy. Max dropped his eyes to the glass of orange juice. Katy had not returned in a while, and he asked a passing waiter for a shot of vodka. The waiter looked at him strangely, but in a minute brought it back. He then dumped the shot into his small glass of orange juice. Irene shot him a glass but said nothing.

            Max and Irene found themselves lost in listening; to nearby conversations, the sounds of buses and trucks and bikes on Oxford Street. Their food finally came, and it was presented by a young male waiter.

            “My apologies, Katy is very busy at the moment. She sends her regrets.” Irene frowned, looking across the less than packed café. Katy was nowhere to be seen. She slouched in her seat.

            “Thank you,” she said quietly. She ate her eggs slowly. Max ate his slowly as well, making sure there was food to divert his attention.  At length, Irene spoke.

            “Are you sure everything’s alright, darling?”

            “Of course.”

            “Something isn’t right.”

            “A lot of things aren’t right, sweetheart.”

            “And then you say things like that.” She pursed her lips.

            “Like what?”

            “Exactly.” She scanned the diner again. “What happened back there with you and Katy?” You looked like you’d seen her before.”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            “But you know what I’m saying. Do you know her somehow?”

            “I’ve never seen her.”

            “That’s not how it seemed. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

            “Can’t we just enjoy breakfast? It’s our first time eating out in London. I don’t want to spoil it with this kind of talk.”

“What kind of talk?”

“All talk, sweetheart.” They were silent again, and continued eating. She was watching

the flower beds sway in the wind and the rise of buildings disappear down the street.

He stared at his plate, wishing for more food.

            After nearly ten minutes, the waiter who had brought their food brought their check, apologizing on Katy’s behalf once again. Max reached for the check, but Irene beat him to it.

            “I have this. I want to go find Katy, and at least say good bye.” She strode away quickly, her heels knocking against the tile floor. Max watched her leave and returned to his screwdriver, downing the last of it. He stood up and walked towards the exit to stand and wait for Irene. ON his way, he found the waiter who had brought him the shot of vodka and tipped him a few pounds. He put his hands in his pocket and waited at the door, rocking on his fee. The walls were a dark tile, a bluish color, and it reminded Max of being underwater.

            Across the narrow café, near the bar, he saw a sign for a cognac he had not had since Barcelona, nearly a month ago. He walked over to the bar, and the swiveling bar stools. He ordered a cognac with ice. A few people smoked at the far end of the bar, and looked at Max. He rolled his eyes and looked away.

            “One more,” he said to the bartender, draining the drink. As the bartender poured it out, he noticed Irene near the kitchen. She had found Katy. Max’s eyes widened. He could not make out what they were saying, only that Irene looked inquiringly at Katy. Katy looked sad. The bartender placed the drink with ice on a plastic pad on the bar. Max took a few sips. He looked at the women and this time Katy had tears on her face, and Irene looked fierce. Katy was flailing her arms and raised her voice. All he could hear was “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Irene looked around the room in all directions, until she found him sitting at the bar. Her eyes were piercing. She turned to Katy and slapped her across the face. The entire café was hushed. Max could see that Irene was crying now, and she stumbled to the door. Max finished his drink in two gulps and followed her. He caught up to her and grabbed her arm, which she ripped from his grip.
            “You son of a b***h, how dare you?”

            “Darling please. It really isn’t what you think.”

            “You think I don’t know that? This is not what I would have thought. It’s worse.

            “Sweetheart, please lets calm down.”

            “How dare you.”

            “Please, just think of those breakfasts in Paris and Italy. What about those?

            “Hotel breakfast is good enough.”

            “Please wait. Please don’t go.”

            “I’m not going anywhere. You’re the one who already left.” With a loud crack, and a swift move, she slapped him across the face and tore out of the café in tears. Max stood in silence. Katy was gone, and everyone looked at him. With nothing else to do but think, he sat back at the bar and ordered another cognac. The smokers at the end of the bar stared at him. He flipped them the bird and they returned to their drinks. He hadn’t noticed how reflective the wood of the bar was. He looked at the taps of imported beer, and was considering one.

            “3.50,” the bartender said.

            “The last one was 2.50.”

            “3.50.” Max sighed and paid. And drank it until the ice was melted.