Love Story

 Love Story
by Julian Hebbrecht

They met at a party, as many people do. The party was rather boring, as many parties are. The food was good and plentiful, the drinks top-shelf, and the hostess eager to please. The guests were friendly and engaged in polite conversation.

Two people drifted onto the terrace separately and met there.

Small talk.

“Hi. It’s hot inside, isn’t it?”
“Yes — and very smoky too.”
“By the way, I’m Christine.”
“Oh, hi. I’m David.”

Silence. Sitting together on a bench — not too close. Looking out over the city. Sipping wine. Slowly. Breathing in the summer evening.

“More wine?” He lifted the bottle at his feet.
“Just a little — that’s enough, thanks.”

“Are you a friend of Martha’s?”
“Yes, we work at the same office. I’m a graphic designer too. How about you?”
“Oh, I’m a goldsmith. I teach jewelry design as well.”

Something in common. Something to talk about. Other things too — art, galleries, museums, concerts, computers. Both of them were divorced, they discovered. Twice, even. If you counted living together, it was four times for him.

“Four times?!”
“I’m a slow learner.”

Laughter. No need to explain.

Later, they walked from the terrace into the garden, then followed a path through the woods that sloped gently downhill. Talking. Forgetting about the party. At the main road, they hailed a taxi.

“Your place or mine?”

They both laughed at his old, worn-out line — and went to the riverbank instead.

Boats on the water. Distant lights. The smell of grass and river. Muffled sounds. Walking slowly. Bats darting through the air, catching mosquitoes.

“I like to come here once in a while to recharge my batteries.”
“I used to live near a river when I was a girl. I love coming here too.”

Friendly conversation. Avoiding questions too personal. Exchanging views, experiences, preferences. Not prying — not hiding either.

“Any children?”
“No, no children. You?”
“No. And now it’s too late, I guess,” he said.
“Is it?”
“Well, I don’t want to have to deal with a teenager when I’m sixty-five. I’d rather have a few grandchildren — just at weekends.”

She laughed. So, fifty. He had to be about fifty, then. He looked younger, though. Two marriages for her too, a few years in between, probably. Maybe thirty-five, he thought. She didn’t look it. Could pass for thirty easily. Good figure, too.

She felt his eyes on her body — gentle, admiring, not offensive.

“Coffee?” he asked, pointing.

White tables and chairs on red gravel, colorful paper lanterns, candlelight, waiters in white jackets. Other couples talking quietly, heads close together.

“Good idea. I hope they have cakes.”
“Not for me,” he said. “I’m on a diet.”
“A diet?”
“Yeah, a seafood diet.”
He paused for a moment.
“Whenever I see food, I get hungry and eat it.”

She laughed out loud and hit him playfully on the shoulder.
He liked it.

They ordered café-au-lait and cakes, and small glasses of Grand Marnier from a pretty waitress in a short black dress and a ridiculously small white apron.

Their conversation became more intimate after that — hopes for the future, fears, dreams. Another marriage? Probably not. Who needs more pain and frustration? Once bitten… once…?!

Laughter.
You never know, though.

Much later, they left the café terrace and walked to the subway station. They exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet again.

Soon.

Now, on their way home, on subway trains going in opposite directions, they smiled.