Le Destin Se Moque de Nous

On me dit que le destin se moque bien de nous
Qu’il ne nous donne rien et qu’il nous promet tout
Parais qu’le bonheur est à portée de main,
Alors on tend la main et on se retrouve fou
Pourtant quelqu’un m’a dit …
Que tu m’aimais encore, me l’a t’on vraiment dit…
Que tu m’aimais encore, serais ce possible alors ?

We sat at the back of L’Entrecote St-James, me on the banquette, he facing me. Both of our faces reflected in the wraparound mirrors of the bistro. All around us diners discoursing in French, lulled into a quiet hum by bottles of Mouton Cadet, potage aux asperges and Steak-frites.

My new suede boots were rubbing at the back of my heels, hurting just enough to feel good. My legs were freezing under my tights, my skirt short and wool and of no use at all. He looked beautiful as always; crisp shirt, great cut jacket, hooded eyes and these full lips that are so sexy it distracts me. We held hands, lazy from the wine and food. He kissed the inside of my wrist and we talked desultorily of what we would do later.

"We could go over to Cafe Universel and see who is out…", he said, tracing his fingers over my palm. Universel is owned by a friend of ours and is my second home. I am there at least three nights a week. Where else can one go where the staff line up to kiss you, feed you treats and spoil you rotten with porto and biscotti? Our group meets there every Friday of life, twenty or thirty of us. It is a lovefest, with great food, martinis, long talks in the loo and far far too much gossip, blow and inappropriate groping.

"Ummm…not tonight. Nobody is out tomight and besides, we are having brunch there Sunday, remember? " We had just come to dinner from the bookstore and I had a few films in my bag that I’d purchased. "How about we watch a film? Its so cold…."

"Oh its like that? No skating? No clubbing?"

"What, like seal clubbing?" I was a bit drunk, I think.

"Yeah, seal clubbing, Mist. Sounds fun. Lets have a bath and some red wine. We can watch your film, the Woody Allen one." I had been pestering him to watch "Vicky Christina Barcelona" with me for ages. He has a beauty mark right over his lip, higher than Cindy Crawford, just the tiniest of black dots. I wanted to lick it.

"Okay."

"What is up with you?" Footsie under the table, and he is scratching my palm now. "You’re thinking about shagging, aren’t you?"

"I am thinking about the film."

"No you’re not. God, I am going to miss you. I can’t not have you, not be with you. What is going to happen to us?"

"I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it."

We walk out into the downtown winter night, windows glowing with garish holiday lights. We stop on the pavement in front of the metro and we just stand there, holding each other in the cold.

I don’t know how it’ll all end, but its not over yet.