I can’t get the girl to stop dancing inside my head. She has a passion for the Latin dances –tango, rumba, cha cha cha. She moves slowly and deliberately, twisting and turning her way into the corners of my mind. And as I listen to her steps echo through my consciousness, I can’t help but wish that I, too, had a sense of rhythm.
I can’t make out what he’s saying. His voice is low and deep. You might not be aware of this but higher voices carry further. Once you get to my age, you start to notice that. I’m tucked behind my usual bistro table in the far left corner, letting the rising steam from my coffee caress the bottom of my chin. He’s seated in the centre, long legs angled away from his table, away from her. I hear the rumble of his voice but not the actual words. Whatever he’s saying, though, must be awful. I watch her face contract into a compact ball and her hand fly to her cheek. She hunches her shoulders and, with her other hand, covers part of her forehead. She looks just like a little girl hiding from the big bad wolf. Maybe he doesn’t notice the effect he’s having on her, because he keeps on talking in that same low monotone. The sound somehow reminds me of the dull hum of tires on a metal bridge. But maybe that’s just my hearing aid. She twists her head away from him with a sudden, jerky movement. As if she can’t bear to listen anymore. A single tear rolls down her cheek, then she blinks and there’s a second. He looks at her unflinchingly, but he’s stopped talking now. Maybe there’s nothing left to say. In a clean and fluid move, he rises to his feet. He wraps a grey scarf twice around his neck and buttons up his coat. She makes no move to go, doesn’t move at all except to blink at regular intervals. On his way out he hesitates, then places a heavy hand on her shoulder. His hand is wide, I notice, with long tapering fingers that neatly encapsulate the curve of her upper arm. He looks down at the crown of her head with an expression I can’t read. She doesn’t give the slightest hint of a reaction, and it’s not clear to me whether she’s even registered the sudden warmth of skin on skin. He gives a last little awkward pat and heads out into the street. She doesn’t look up or back, but continues to aim a hollow stare at the cake display on the counter. Then, lightly and as if in slow motion, she moves her hand up to her shoulder, to where his hand had been. She echoes his little pat with the soft pads of her fingers. Then she lets her hand drop, like dead weight, into her lap.
