of the two-screen movie theater where they caught cheap matinees of second-run films. The Hayride Crepes summoned autumn at Solomon’s Farm: apple fritters and grilled sausage and the smoky tang of burning leaves. The Seventeen-Spices Mousse made them think of the spice factory on Old Mill Road, which perfumed the air for miles around with ginger and vanilla, nutmeg and thyme.
On the table between them, the console made periodic angry sounds—a rattle, a wheeze that burned their nostrils—but The Smell had stopped coming. We should check the machine. See what’s wrong, they would think now and then. But then Chef Antoinette would send out two lavender macarons that smelled like their front-yard lilacs, and they would forget.
Peter (Pierre) returned with a plate of fresh strawberries and a pot of locally roasted Extra-Bold Black Magic Silk Truffle coffee. He poured it in two china cups, letting the deep toasty chocolate-and-tobacco smells of their favorite coffee shop fill the nook, and crouched beside their table.
“This was a success, I see.” He took the tartlet plate from Riley. “What’s the story?”
They relayed the Papa D’s anecdote in a jubilant rush, their sentences overlapping and tangling together. He listened, smiling, his head whipping from Rachel to Riley. At the punchline, he let out a reflective sigh that smelled faintly of garlic butter.
“Did you know,” he said, “that scent is our most powerful memory trigger? And that seventy-five percent of our sense of taste is actually smell?”
Rachel gripped the waiter’s vest. “Did you know,” she said, “that if you hooked my brain up with his brain, you’d be able to watch one long continuous movie of our life?”
“How beautiful.”
“I remember all the details he forgets. He remembers mine.”
“You’re fortunate. Both of you.”
“We are not. No no no .” Rachel shook him by the lapels. “We’re extremely un fortunate. You have no idea.”
“What’ll we do this year?” Riley gulped the last of his coffee and poured another cup. “Who’re we going to be without each other?”
Peter (Pierre) pointed heavenward. “You don’t believe you’ll be…reunited?”
His eyes went to the tubes.
“We’re not sure of anything,” said Riley. Which was the truth.
Their waiter stood up. He took the folded white towel from across his arm and draped it around his neck.
“Let me do something for you,” he said. “Before fate rips you apart. Before you journey beyond the veil.”
“What,” said Rachel.
“Let me give you a happy ending.” He opened MUSINGS OF A DROWNING MAN to a page marked with a pink sticky note. “Let me marry you.”
Riley looked at Rachel. The room tilted. In their narcotic after-dinner haze, this seemed like the most brilliant and logical idea that had ever been proposed. They had told 1,354 Bob and Athena stories since the night in Suite 7B, all of them with happy endings. Now they wanted their own. A faint message from a corner of their brains told them there might be something objectionable about this plan, but they couldn’t recall what it was.
“We,” said Riley, pointing at nothing in particular, “should totally get married.”
“Yes.” Rachel nodded. “We totally should.”
“We don’t have a license,” Riley said.
“That’s all right!” Peter (Pierre) laughed. “Neither do I.”
The waiter worked fast. He fashioned a wedding tiara from their napkin rings, twists of gold-wire branches studded with pearl beads. He stuck a blue rosebud in Riley’s shirt pocket and gave the rest of the roses in the vase to Rachel. Then he whistled, and the frizzy-haired L’Amour Food! violinist clomped into the curtained nook. She wore a black beret, an ill-fitting blue dress with witchy chiffon sleeves, and a nametag that said BONJOUR! JE M’APPELLE CLARA (CLAIRE).
“These brave young lovers have armoritis— something,” Peter (Pierre) told Clara (Claire). “They have chosen this
On the table between them, the console made periodic angry sounds—a rattle, a wheeze that burned their nostrils—but The Smell had stopped coming. We should check the machine. See what’s wrong, they would think now and then. But then Chef Antoinette would send out two lavender macarons that smelled like their front-yard lilacs, and they would forget.
Peter (Pierre) returned with a plate of fresh strawberries and a pot of locally roasted Extra-Bold Black Magic Silk Truffle coffee. He poured it in two china cups, letting the deep toasty chocolate-and-tobacco smells of their favorite coffee shop fill the nook, and crouched beside their table.
“This was a success, I see.” He took the tartlet plate from Riley. “What’s the story?”
They relayed the Papa D’s anecdote in a jubilant rush, their sentences overlapping and tangling together. He listened, smiling, his head whipping from Rachel to Riley. At the punchline, he let out a reflective sigh that smelled faintly of garlic butter.
“Did you know,” he said, “that scent is our most powerful memory trigger? And that seventy-five percent of our sense of taste is actually smell?”
Rachel gripped the waiter’s vest. “Did you know,” she said, “that if you hooked my brain up with his brain, you’d be able to watch one long continuous movie of our life?”
“How beautiful.”
“I remember all the details he forgets. He remembers mine.”
“You’re fortunate. Both of you.”
“We are not. No no no .” Rachel shook him by the lapels. “We’re extremely un fortunate. You have no idea.”
“What’ll we do this year?” Riley gulped the last of his coffee and poured another cup. “Who’re we going to be without each other?”
Peter (Pierre) pointed heavenward. “You don’t believe you’ll be…reunited?”
His eyes went to the tubes.
“We’re not sure of anything,” said Riley. Which was the truth.
Their waiter stood up. He took the folded white towel from across his arm and draped it around his neck.
“Let me do something for you,” he said. “Before fate rips you apart. Before you journey beyond the veil.”
“What,” said Rachel.
“Let me give you a happy ending.” He opened MUSINGS OF A DROWNING MAN to a page marked with a pink sticky note. “Let me marry you.”
Riley looked at Rachel. The room tilted. In their narcotic after-dinner haze, this seemed like the most brilliant and logical idea that had ever been proposed. They had told 1,354 Bob and Athena stories since the night in Suite 7B, all of them with happy endings. Now they wanted their own. A faint message from a corner of their brains told them there might be something objectionable about this plan, but they couldn’t recall what it was.
“We,” said Riley, pointing at nothing in particular, “should totally get married.”
“Yes.” Rachel nodded. “We totally should.”
“We don’t have a license,” Riley said.
“That’s all right!” Peter (Pierre) laughed. “Neither do I.”
The waiter worked fast. He fashioned a wedding tiara from their napkin rings, twists of gold-wire branches studded with pearl beads. He stuck a blue rosebud in Riley’s shirt pocket and gave the rest of the roses in the vase to Rachel. Then he whistled, and the frizzy-haired L’Amour Food! violinist clomped into the curtained nook. She wore a black beret, an ill-fitting blue dress with witchy chiffon sleeves, and a nametag that said BONJOUR! JE M’APPELLE CLARA (CLAIRE).
“These brave young lovers have armoritis— something,” Peter (Pierre) told Clara (Claire). “They have chosen this
Similar Books
