Comedie

Cafe de la Comedie has nothing to do with comedy. Like so many other Paris cafes, it takes its name from the somewhat-celebrated street on which it sits, a stone's throw from the Palais Royal. It is small and has matching plastic wicker chairs with red-and-tan seats and backs. Like most cafes, it is small, sprawls out across the sidewalk. There is a second floor solely accessible through a spiral staircase. Towards the back of the street-level dining room, the walls are panels of mirrors upon which some hard working soul inscribes the daily specials and wine list. In the morning, a basket of croissants lies invitingly on the counter. Two waiters work the morning shift. One is young and mostly inexperienced. The other is older and works too hard.

        Lundi.
The first work day after two days of rest, and the streets are again clogged with the perpetual gridlock of traffic. Most of the weekday's clients are regulars, like the woman who sits at a table in the extreme corner. She is neither young nor old (the faint caresses of gray are already sweeping her ruddy hair), neither attractive or beautiful. She only comes here for breakfast, and every time her order is the same: cafe au lait and une baguette without butter but with jam. Always apricot, never strawberry. She has been a regular long enough to have a casually friendly rapport with the older waiter. He is always the one who serves her; the younger one can never find her in time amidst the cramped sea of chairs and little, circular tables.
Today she stirs her coffee with mild distaste as she surveys the headlines of Le Monde. Because it is now fall and cooler, she has taken to wearing the same coat every day, as so many of the French do. Hers is a dark blue, almost black, with round buttons.
She finishes her baguette early and rushes off across the street to the metro station, leaving a smaller tip than usual.
The man arrives at the cafe early enough to watch her go, too late to glean a complete impression of her. Regarding cafes, he is a wanderer, despite the extra trouble such a breakfast cafe life brings. He sits down front and to the left to people-watch. The young waiter happens to be on hand for once, and the man orders a plain omelette and black coffee. He takes a small notebook out of his bag and flips through the first pages. His face twists into concentration and he rubs his chin. Sparing his nose, which is simply and dramatically shaped, he is a far cry from handsome. His eyebrows grow like weeds in a vacant lot, and a handful of acne scars pockmark his cheeks. He slurps down his coffee, burning his mouth soundly in the process and spilling a few drops onto the pages of his notebook.
When his omelette arrives, it is gigantic enough to merit a side salad and the presence of the bread basket. When he takes his first bite, several drops of grease slide down from his forkful and join the coffee dots on the notebook. Such is life.

Mardi.
The woman is in a better mood today. She also arrives earlier. She is midway through her baguette when the man walks past. He does not see her but decides that he will return to this cafe one time more, for the prices are fair and it does not take him out of his way. He sits inside today, which turns out to be a poor decision with the plethora of mirrors in the dining area. He does not enjoy the harsh shapes the light makes out of his face. He focuses his attention outwards to the street and the other clients. He catches a glimpse of the woman in time to see her dribble jam onto her dark coat. He smiles to himself and orders an omelette in commiseration. The woman leaves before him and happens to glance into the dining area to see him take an exceedingly large mouthful of eggs and mushrooms. She smiles to herself and jaywalks spectacularly across the street.

Mercredi.
The man does not visit Cafe de la Comedie today. The woman arrives about the same time as she did the previous day and sits farther back, less in the corner, in the miniature field of tables. She looks around the cafe and out to the street, but today seems hollow. The older waiter is even busier than usual. She resigns herself to the conclusion that this morning is empty and goes wordlessly on her way.

Jeudi.
The cafe is closed.

Vendredi.
The woman arrives very early today. She sits again in her corner. Today the man comes again. He feels drawn, very subtly, but nonetheless drawn, to this street. He thinks it is the omelette and makes sure not to sit inside. He sits two tables away from the woman. They take their breakfasts without looking at each other. Both of them are reading a paper today. When the older waiter comes up to ask him what he wants, the man surprises himself and orders a croissant. When the woman finishes her baguette, pays, and rises to leave, she looks at the man. He is still reading the paper. He seems familiar, but she cannot place him.

Samedi.
The cafe is closed.

Dimanche.
The cafe is closed.

Lundi.
The man has decided he likes Cafe de la Comedie. He swings by very early, even earlier than the woman. He has decided that he prefers the immense omelets to croissants and so orders one. When the woman arrives, she notices him and sits two tables away from him. The older waiter is exhausted after a demanding evening of work and accidentally gives her strawberry instead of apricot jam. She is so surprised by the newspaper story that she is reading that she is almost oblivious to the waiter's mistake. She only dribbles jam on her plate today. The man is not as lucky and drops a forkful of lettuce squarely onto the notebook that he has once again brought with him. He resigns himself to fate, folds the notebook shut, and reopens it. The salad dressing makes a Rosarch-esque print on the paper. He removes the pieces of lettuce when no one is watching and ponders the meaning of the symmetrical pattern.



Mardi.
The weather is cooler. The woman is not there. The man continues to arrive early. Today he is not as hungry and orders a baguette. He receives apricot jam with it. He stays so long that he is almost late for work. Something is incomplete, but his conscious mind cannot decide what.
The woman fell ill Monday afternoon.

Mercredi.
The man's subconscious is stubborn, and he arrives very early again. He orders the typical omelette and eats it slowly. He takes out his notebook and opens it to the page where he dropped lettuce yesterday. It makes him feel very wise and very stupid simultaneously.

Jeudi.
The cafe is closed.

Vendredi.
Neither the man nor woman frequents the cafe.

Samedi.
The cafe is closed.

Dimanche.
The cafe is closed.

Lundi.
The woman returns to the cafe after a week of absence. Only the older waiter pays attention to her reappearance. She orders the usual black coffee and baguette but declines the jam in an attempt to give her weary digestive system a break. Exceptionally plain, but she spends little of her time focusing on the taste. She now focuses on crawling back into her busy world after several sick days. When time comes for her to leave, she gathers her personal belongings but cannot shake the feeling that she has left something behind.

Mardi.
The woman is in a rush but happy. In her rush to depart after finishing off another jam-less baguette, she almost knocks over her coffee cup. Nothing else happens.

Mercredi.
By an accident of fate, the man is ahead of schedule this morning and decides to try Cafe de la Comedie one more time. He sits where he sat the first time, right on the edge of the island of tables to watch the people walk by. He decides to be bold and orders pain au chocolat, which translates into English as "chocolate bread" but fails to convey the true nature of the pastry.
Again, the woman is in a rush today. She has attempted to shake recent fatigue by allowing herself a few extra minutes of sleep. The stress seems less and less worth the quiet minutes. Because it is close, she takes a seat close to the street, across the aisle from the man. She orders her usual fare and sits anxiously as she waits for the food to appear. She forces herself to gulp down her coffee although it is steaming hot, distributes the jam over her bread sloppily.
The man sits quietly and watches the shoes of passersby.
The woman is done with breakfast and is off in a flash. Like a jackrabbit, she bounces across the street.
The man's eyes wander to her now-vacant table. The woman has almost descended into the subway station when she hears someone shouting. She turns around to see him across the street, holding her bag up in the air.
"You forgot your bag!" he cries, as if she cannot compute the situation.
She runs back to the cafe, her high heels making loud clacks against the pavement, and snatches her bag from the man's outstretched hands. Her face softens for a moment as she says, "Thank you."
So, of all the ways and places, it starts. Here, now.