The restaurant owner in our French village had made an effort. Pink paper hearts on the walls. Romantic light. Sweet music.
The restaurant was sold out. Happy couples, young and old, around us. Flirting teenagers. Dads and mums without their children. And older couples: ‘monsieur’ in suit and tie, ‘madame’ in her best dress.
The ‘foie gras’ was delicious. I ordered a glass of Bourgogne. And a cola. The ‘Coquilles St. Jacques’ – well cooked in butter sauce – went down with ease. So were the french fries and the saucages. It was a beautiful evening.
“Je t’aime”, was written on the napkins. “Don’t fold an airplane out of them”, I warned with a smile.
When I drank my coffee and cognac, he reached out for my cellphone. “Can I call mummy? See where she is right now?”
“Sure dude, go ahead” I said and looked somewhere, beyond the ceiling.