Memories of the Rue des Rosiers

Every Friday, Amy eats lunch at a bistro that reminded her of Paris.  There is a little something at the place that draws her out of the office once a week from noon to twelve forty-five.  It certainly isn't the food, which is insipid and grotesquely over-priced at that.  Nor is it the decor, the uninspired product of Middle American imaginings of France.  Rather, Amy likes the service.

Or, to be more precise, Amy likes a server.

Sitting at her usual table by the window, Amy peers at her waitress over a menu she had never actually read. Perhaps today, her waitress, weary and tense, will flop down in the chair across from her. Of course, Amy will say something witty and charming- and sexy. Her waitress, in the midst of her amethyst laughter, will brush her hand against Amy’s. A brush of skin that will lead to a lingering moment and, finally, to hardcore, full-frontal hand-holding.

That’s as far as Amy ever wandered. It was absurd to go farther, she reflects with guilt but not regret. It was absurd to imagine a waitress stopping long enough during the lunchtime chaos to share an intimate moment with an anonymous customer. It was absurd to even call the young woman ‘her waitress.’ She was not Amy’s anything and, by the looks of her, she was almost certainly someone else’s something.

Which reminds Amy of Marais on the right bank of the Seine and a humid night in the arms of a Austrian lingerie model. The scent of pussy and the taste of champagne.  Which brings her to her ex-husband, the anatomically qualified "Mr. Next-Guy-I-Fuck."

Life is absurd, Amy concludes as she washes down another flavorless turkey club. As absurd as her never bringing dates here; as absurd as going home and telling herself that she’s not in love with her waitress.

THE END