Table Four
by Sara Clark
Genre: Romance
Swearwords: None.
Description: A man arranges to meet a blind date at a local café.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A man arranges to meet a blind date at a local café.
All last night they had spoken on the phone, nervous and ridiculous, until the glory of the morning air had yielded to a dark and thousand starred sky, and when the sun ceased to shine, and the shadowed world opened out again, he had lain in bed, exhausted by the memory of their dark reverie, for it seemed to him that they had been lovers several heavens since, each sentence understood by the other, however nonsensical it had seemed to anyone else. Over and over, they had confided that they loved each other, though neither said those words aloud.
Now, he stood on the bridge, peering over the river where the ornate sign of the Café shone saffron and burgundy in the sun. It was impossible to believe that she was waiting for him there. She seemed like a far-off star, sparkling in the sapphire air, and it was only now, when the spotless compass of his heart was guiding him toward her, that he realised how easily it may break, and how quickly he would lose her if it did.
He kneeled on the bench, gazing enviously at the diners over the river, whose lives seemed so easy and complete. Then he looked over the bridge again. The sunlight had caught the river in its many jewelled net, and the water burned gold below him, glowing silver-green as it struggled free and vanished beneath the bridge.
He felt that his heart was alight, so filled with fire it almost split and burst, and all at once his courage arrived, like a hurricane rising on a barren horizon, and he found that he was walking forward. As he turned the corner, he looked along the stone corridor at the narrow ceiling of the sky, where the winter sun shone in its golden dominion, opening its idle yellow eye, and a cloud drifted by, the great, ivory weight of it billowing out until the grey veil of rain it contained unfurled and fell like silk upon the air.
As he neared the door, he paused to lean against a wall, before breathing deeply and walking in. He saw her at once in the corner, her hair a dewy disarray. She glanced up at him with a primitive glimmer of joy in her eye, and he was about to speak when she sighed, and looked down.
She had not recognised him. He felt the marble of his heart fall from her once-cupped hands, and in his panic, he sat down at the nearest table, picking up a newspaper and pretending to read.
He gazed at her radiant silhouette, studying her hands intently. The great might of his desire had brought him here, but at the sight of her, it dwindled into tenderness, and now, he longed only to drink in the liquor of the air beside her. A trace of pink lipstick clung to her cup, the thinnest imprint of a kiss, and as she wiped it off with a napkin, he realised that he envied everything she had touched – the cup, the spoon, the tabletop, as though they were living things she loved.
“So this is how it happens,” he thought. “This is where it ends.” Outside, the ground was devouring the rain, and as he watched her peer into her cup, it was as though a million curtains were closing all at once, casting their shadows on the chambers of their dreams.
Now, he stood on the bridge, peering over the river where the ornate sign of the Café shone saffron and burgundy in the sun. It was impossible to believe that she was waiting for him there. She seemed like a far-off star, sparkling in the sapphire air, and it was only now, when the spotless compass of his heart was guiding him toward her, that he realised how easily it may break, and how quickly he would lose her if it did.
He kneeled on the bench, gazing enviously at the diners over the river, whose lives seemed so easy and complete. Then he looked over the bridge again. The sunlight had caught the river in its many jewelled net, and the water burned gold below him, glowing silver-green as it struggled free and vanished beneath the bridge.
He felt that his heart was alight, so filled with fire it almost split and burst, and all at once his courage arrived, like a hurricane rising on a barren horizon, and he found that he was walking forward. As he turned the corner, he looked along the stone corridor at the narrow ceiling of the sky, where the winter sun shone in its golden dominion, opening its idle yellow eye, and a cloud drifted by, the great, ivory weight of it billowing out until the grey veil of rain it contained unfurled and fell like silk upon the air.
As he neared the door, he paused to lean against a wall, before breathing deeply and walking in. He saw her at once in the corner, her hair a dewy disarray. She glanced up at him with a primitive glimmer of joy in her eye, and he was about to speak when she sighed, and looked down.
She had not recognised him. He felt the marble of his heart fall from her once-cupped hands, and in his panic, he sat down at the nearest table, picking up a newspaper and pretending to read.
He gazed at her radiant silhouette, studying her hands intently. The great might of his desire had brought him here, but at the sight of her, it dwindled into tenderness, and now, he longed only to drink in the liquor of the air beside her. A trace of pink lipstick clung to her cup, the thinnest imprint of a kiss, and as she wiped it off with a napkin, he realised that he envied everything she had touched – the cup, the spoon, the tabletop, as though they were living things she loved.
“So this is how it happens,” he thought. “This is where it ends.” Outside, the ground was devouring the rain, and as he watched her peer into her cup, it was as though a million curtains were closing all at once, casting their shadows on the chambers of their dreams.
About the Author
A poet, editor and novelist, Sara Clark was recently appointed the writer in residence at the Damascus Drum Café, Hawick, where she is writing a series of stories set in the café, to be displayed on the tables there.