The Grandfather Clock by Jonathan Kile

refilling her
coffee. She handed me a cup.
    “ Bonjour, my dancing
friend,” she said.
    “ Bonjour,” I said. “Do you
feel as bad as I do?”
    “ I didn’t drink as much as
you did. Klara might not wake up today.”
    “ Did we drop her off?” I
asked.
    “ She’s in my bed. Still
passed out.”
    “ I haven’t had that much
to drink in a long time.”
    “ I thought a New Orleans
bartender would be used to it.”
    “ When you tend bar, you
don’t start drinking at 7:00 and then go until dawn. You start at
two in the morning!”
    “ I see your point,” she
smiled.
    “ I hope I didn’t do
anything...”
    “ Like what? Try to make
out with us?”
    “ No way,” I said. That was
not like me.
    “ Hmmmm.”
    Celeste disappeared and came back
dressed. “I’m late to meet Marco at the farmer’s market.
Ciao!”
    I took a very hot shower and shaved. I
got dressed and stared at Catch-22. I was getting hungry for a
large meal. I didn’t now whether I should just leave Klara there. I
picked up my phone. I had an email from Sam – a response to an
email from me that included two photos. One of me in the middle of
the act of dancing. It looked like I had been tasered. The other
picture was Klara putting a big kiss on Celeste’s cheek. Sam’s
response was, “Looks like you are making yourself at home. Which
one is mine when I come to visit?”
    I had to eat. I went to the door of
Celeste’s room. It was cracked. I gently pushed it open a few more
inches. It creaked and I could see a form move under the blankets.
I decided to wait ten more minutes, and I’d leave Klara a note on
the door.
    I never had to write the note. Klara
shuffled out of the room. Her hair hung wildly on her shoulders.
She wore the long sleeve knit shirt that she had worn under her
blouse. Her skirt was gone. She fell into a soft chair next to the
couch. She had one sock on.
    “ What time is it?” she
asked.
    “ One o’clock.”
    She smiled and pretended to pout. I
got her a glass of water.
    “ I’m hungry,” she
said.
    “ Let’s get some lunch,” I
said.
    Klara put on a pair of Celeste’s blue
jeans and a sweater. She tied her hair back up in a bun. We walked
to the train station and she led us to a place that served eggs,
meats, and breads in a dizzying variety of combinations. It was
exactly what I needed. At first we didn’t talk much. It took too
much effort, with my basic French abilities combined with the
hangover. I showed her the pictures on my phone and she
laughed.
    As the food and coffee began to take
effect she asked, “Did Celeste say where she was going?”
    “ She was meeting Marco at
a farmer’s market.”
    She nodded. Then she asked me, “What
are you doing today.”
    “ I don’t know. Nothing.” I
told her that I had thought about going shopping for
clothes.
    “ Good! I will take you!”
she said. “I must change out of this.”
    Her apartment was a half-mile walk
from the restaurant. Even the winding suburban roads in the
outskirts of Paris had their own charm. Everything was just a bit
different. Maybe older. Maybe smaller. More quaint. They didn’t go
for big things. Her apartment was a little building behind a home.
Like a garage that had been converted, but I wasn’t sure it had
ever been a garage. A dog from the yard barked at our
entry.
    Klara lived in one room with a
kitchenette. A love seat was piled with clothes. Not a single solid
color existed in her wardrobe. Everything was prints. She made a
spot for me to sit. Next to her dresser was a dressing room screen.
I didn’t actually believe anyone still used them. I’d only seen
them in movies. She took off her clothes and slipped into the
bathroom. I picked up a magazine that looked like the French
version of People. Five minutes later, she emerged in a towel. She
acted embarrassed and I hid my eyes. She quickly grabbed a few
things from the couch and disappeared behind the screen
again.
    She put on a long brightly patterned
skirt, a dark