At Café Momus

[qerasija]

The second time he sees her is at the cafe. She sits across the room from him, by the big frosted window. A fat textbook is open on her table. A pink highlighter pen flashes.

He considers her in attentive silence. His tea gets cold.

There is a mysterious sense of recognition every woman possesses by which she is alert to male scrutiny. The girl glances up from her book and catches his stare. She starts, then looks away.

The first time he saw her -- it was many weeks ago -- they were at a club. As he was ordering his drink, he was careless with his elbow and had caused her to spill her beer on the floor. He bought her a replacement, then several more. Though it wasn't his sort of music in the club that night -- he is happiest at the opera -- she had persuaded him to dance. They had kissed, snogging shamelessly in the dimness and smoke, until the lights turned on. He spent the night in her flat, in her bed, in her mouth and pussy.

In the morning, he awoke to an empty bed, an empty room, an empty apartment. He decided against a shower and followed the trail of his clothes to the door. As it happened, he was somewhat wrong in his prior assumptions. The flat was nearly empty. A cat mewled in the kitchen, nosing at an empty bowl. He found food for the cat, scribbled a hasty note of thanks and farewell on the yellow pad by the telephone, appended his phone number to it almost as an afterthought, then left, being careful to lock the door behind him. He hadn't expected her to ring him. She hadn't.

Now in the sober light, she is there, not exactly as he remembered, but not far off either. Her name, however, has drowned in too many beers. Her voice, it is probable that he has never heard it before in its everyday speaking tone, what with the necessity to shout above the din in the club, and the whispers and cries of the sex that followed. He remembers though the touch of her lips to his, the taste of her: a dragon's breath of alcohol on the tongue, salt on the skin, the heady elixir below. His cock remembers too well. There is, unbidden, a familiar stirring in the loins, a rising action, a present ache.

She is staring at him. The eyes lock. He nods, rising from his chair, and approaches.

 

[darkangel85]

(i hope you dont mind me joing, if this is not ok can change my post)

Sitting in the cafe work at hand she can feel a chill down her spin as if she is being watched, she look up slowly her eyes wonder around the small cozy cafe, she was not wrong a man she knows but cannot remember the name of was looking at her, she knew the man she met him shared drinks, a dance and herself with him, although he was asleep when she last saw him, was always better this way because she wouldn’t have to suffer the awkwardness in the morning, other than that she had work and it felt rude to wake him, he was very good she enjoyed her night with him but to her that was all it was and would ever be a night of passion in the arms of a stranger. she woke up, wrote a short note and left, when she returned she found a number his she presumed but she wasn’t going to call and it went straight in the bin, why should she all men had ever caused her was pain and so now she wouldn’t attach herself, she took what she need and left. However now he was coming towards her and she had no where to run, she just watch him moving closer.

 

[qerasija]

It is an odd sort of cafe, populated by students from the music school. There is a pit in the middle through which he walked. In the afternoons, a quartet or trio would sometimes reserve the space for rehearsal. On Saturdays, there would be recitals in the evening. The Steinway in the middle was always well-tuned, in better tuning in fact than any of the ones in the concert hall across the street. Once a year or so, he would play. He would do it for free. The proprietor was an old friend of his.

Ever since he was four, making music had been his life. He had given his first solo recital at fifteen. At thirty-five, he had played with the great orchestras of the world. Three years ago -- was it that long? truly? -- he had walked away from the concert stage and cancelled his recording contract. The death of his wife (car accident) had left him bereft.

The music may one day leave us, but we never leave the music while it comes. He taught now at the conservatory. He taught the young virtuosos with their enormous technique but limited sense of how technique should be applied, or what to say, or indeed where the music was. He thought that one day, he would try his hand at composition, but in truth he didn't know how to begin. The masters -- his masters, Bach, Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms -- they had set the bar so high.

All his life, he was only good at music making and love making. The one secret to each is that the two are the same. He stands at his one-time lover's table now. He sees the wariness in her eyes, and he wonders whether it was a mistake for him to have come to her. Some acquaintances needn't be renewed, he well knows. But he is there, feeling faintly ridiculous and uncertain of what to say.

'Hi,' he starts. 'Florestan Richter. I remember you.'

 

[darkangel85]

'Hi,' 'Florestan Richter. I remember you.' - he said

She smiled she wasnt sure what else to do "i remember you too, Knikki", she knew he wasnt going to go away anysecond soon she would have to stick this out "take a seat, if you like" she commented, "how are you?" in her head she was thinking what a dumb question - how are you - but she wasnt sure what else to say and she proberly wasnt ready for is questions if he had any...

 

[qerasija]

The window is translucent to the light. The people walking past make silhouettes on the white glass. It is late afternoon, the sunset a few hours away. The wind is wild outside.

He replies to the question she has asked with the conventional response. 'I am fine,' he says as he sits on the opposite side of the small table, and rather than ask the same question of her and receive the same conventional reply back, he remarks that she looks fine, too.

The conversation hesitates. There is a tremulous quality to the silence that the wind fills. 'They say the wind will carry us,' he observes. 'To where, I wonder.'

The wind quiets. The silence stretches again.

 

[darkangel85]

I listend to him but i had no idea what he was on about so i smiled "how have you been" trying to hard not to apologise for not calling but i didnt want to iw asnt sorry i just thought that was what he wanted.."Im surpised your talking to me after what happend, unless youu werent botherd"

 

[qerasija]

'Why ever would I be bothered?' he asks. 'Sex is sex. It's what animals do. A few thousand years of what we might charitably call civilisation doesn't change a thing.'

The wind howls outside. A piece of paper sticks to the top of the glass window and flutters down. The church opposite casts a huge shadow through the room. The lights are turned on. They shudder to brightness.

Richter half rises from his chair and digs into his front pocket for his wallet. He brings it out and extracts from it a concert ticket, one of a pair, and places it in front of her. The cardboard stands vertical for a moment, then topples over.

'Do you know the Well-Tempered Clavier, Knikki?' he asks. 'You might call it the Old Testament of the piano, our first covenant with God. There are twenty-four major and minor keys. In 1722 Johann Sebastian Bach decided to write a prelude and a fugue in each one. Then in 1744 he did it a second time. Bach may have intended equal temperament. Unless he didn't. Equal temperament means-- well, never mind what it means. We pianists have been struggling with this music ever since. None of us have ever played it well enough. One of my friends will try the first book tonight. Do come. It's just across the street.'

Richter doesn't wait for her to say anything. He stands and straightens his winter overcoat. 'I must be off; I have a student to see,' he says. He places a kiss on top of her head. 'Do come,' he repeats and strides to the door.