Fiction: Selections from Peter Cherches
At the Coffee Shop, After the Film
A character in the film reminded him
of a former coworker. Trying to remember the guy’s name, he briefly spaced out
on the film. He wondered what the character who reminded him of his former
coworker might have said to the woman in the green dress, when he was trying to
remember the guy’s name, to make her so angry. He didn’t dwell on it. When the
credits were rolling, he remembered the former coworker’s name. Claude. But
what was his last name?
At the coffee shop after the film,
he ordered a BLT. He associated BLTs with old-style coffee shops, the kind with
Formica counters and swivel stools and faux-leather-upholstered booths. His
wife ordered apple pie and a cup of coffee. Somehow, drinking coffee at night
didn’t keep her awake. The apple pie was topped with whipped cream. “So what
did you think?” she asked him.
“What do you mean?”
“You know, the movie. What did you
think?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I kind of liked
it.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I’d like to discuss the film. Just
once. You never want to talk about films. Don’t you know that’s part of the
fun, discussing it afterwards?”
“Anthony,” he replied. “Claude Anthony.”
A Fallen Raviolo
A raviolo fell off his fork and onto
his pants, red sauce and all. Damn, he thought. With his napkin, he lifted the
raviolo off his leg and mopped up the sauce as best he could while his wife
looked on. “I’m going to the men’s room to try to do something about these
pants,” he told her.
“All right,” his wife replied as she
returned to her linguini with clams.
The men’s room didn’t have any paper
towels. It had one of those annoying hand dryers. It was one of the decent ones
at least, Dyson, but it was useless for the purpose at hand. So he got a wad of
toilet paper from one of the stalls and put it under the faucet to wet it. He
rubbed the red spot on his leg. The paper started falling apart, shedding on
his leg. He now had a pant leg with diluted red sauce and toilet paper sludge.
Damn, he thought. He went through the whole process again, without quite understanding
why. Then he got yet another wad of toilet paper, but this time he didn’t add
water. He rubbed at the wet spot with red sauce traces and toilet paper sludge.
It got some of the gunk off, but left new toilet paper trails. That was about
as good as he could manage, he figured. He’d have to live with it for the time
being and drop it off at the dry cleaners on the way to work the following
morning.
He exited the bathroom and walked
quickly back to the table, looking around, to see if he was being stared at.
No, he didn’t think so. He sat back down and nonchalantly continued to eat his
remaining ravioli, occasionally touching his leg to see if it was any drier,
while his wife passionately slurped linguini.
When the couple had finished their
pasta, the waiter asked if they’d like some dessert. “Yes,” they said, in near
unison. The waiter nodded, said, “Excellent,” left, and returned shortly with
dessert menus.
She chose the tiramisu, and he ordered peaches in port, mainly because he hadn’t seen it on a menu in many years.
Dinner, on His Own
She was in Philadelphia, visiting
her mother, so he went to a restaurant for dinner, on his own. It was not a
fancy restaurant, he reserved fancy restaurants for special occasions. But it
wasn’t a dump, nor was it a hole-in-the-wall. It was a pleasant spot, the kind
of place he’d have called a bar-restaurant. He was seated by the hostess at a
small square table. When the server approached and welcomed him he ordered a
pint of Guinness. He perused the menu. There were burgers, sandwiches, and
salads, as well as entrees, like pasta and roast chicken. His friend Jacques,
who grew up in Paris, once said to him, with indignation, “You Americans, why
do you call the main course an entree? An entree is what you Americans call an
appetizer.” After more than 40 years in the USA and citizenship, he still said,
“You Americans.”
When the server returned with his
Guinness he ordered a chicken and grilled peppers panini with fontina cheese.
He said “panini,” as it was written on the menu, even though he knew the
singular in Italian is panino, not panini, and that ordering a panini was like
saying, “A chicken sandwich, please.”
After he finished his panino, which
he quite enjoyed, the server asked him if he’d care for any dessert or coffee.
“Yes, an espresso, please,” he said.
“Can I bring you a biscotto with
that?”
She said biscotto! He wanted to kiss
her. Maybe even marry her. Then he remembered his wife, in Philadelphia.
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