Le Boef sur le toit

“Le Boef sur le toit” embellishes the restaurant entrance with cabaret lights. A liver spotted Gentleman waits patiently, maintaining his balance using a wooden stick.  His wife threads her arm through his, like an anchor. The last time they had visited was on an overcast evening fifty years ago. On the bank of the river Seine, the same gentlemen, but with firm skin- the colour of bailey’s, had proposed to his soulmate on one knee.
‘Votre table est prête monsieur. Has it been a year already?’ asks a clean-shaven waiter, with a tribal tattoo on his forearm, who ushers them inside. The Gentlemen and his wife follow his jacket tail to a table, dressed in champagne silk. Before seating himself, he pulls out the chair for his wife. He faces the openly visible kitchen- sweating chefs dancing to the clang of plates and the sizzling stove, perfecting plates with green leaves that aren’t meant to be eaten. The beige walls look bland without the daring lilac wallpaper and watercolour paintings.
‘It’s not as beautiful as I remember, Marian.’
She tells him she agrees and confides in him the reasons why; new management, too controversial. He nods because he too had done the same research. He doesn’t listen to her as intently as he did that night fifty years ago. Not because he felt no need to impress, but because he had known her for so long now that he could almost predict how each sentence would end- like a final rehearsal. Instead he watches her from across the table- consumed by the strawberry blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. Occasionally she shakes her head to move the fringe out of her eyes. Other times she would look at him like a child looking up at an animal; trying to predict it’s movements.
The waiter doesn’t hand him a menu. Instead he brings over two plates a while later, one with sea bass the other with steak. To make sure it wasn’t cold for her he tried some for himself. It was dry but it warmed his throat as it travelled. Marian never used to let him touch her food- it was one of the things he admired about her. He loves a woman who loves her food. She stares at him with the same curiosity she showed him before, not breaking eye contact.
‘Why aren’t you eating my Love? Afraid it won’t compare to last time?’
The bass, he admitted was blander than before but the wine seemed richer and its’ taste lingered at the back of his throat like gum he couldn’t get rid of.
People seated around the couple whisper softly to one another, mostly in french, but The Gentleman ignores them. Instead he focuses intently on his wife’s eyes. Blue and green swirling together like agate marbles. He knows they will never change.
Fifty years ago, they sat opposite each other both comfortable but anxious. After popping the question, the sweat beneath his fedora, was yet to disappear. Marian herself quietly panicked over how she would tell her parents- it being so soon after her diagnosis. They spoke about when and where they would have it and who they’d invite. Neither one of them mentioned Marian’s operation, scheduled soon after their return, to take out her ovaries.
They didn’t talk this time, the way they had before. He already knew she despised anyone wearing a coat indoors. She knew about his love for pizza but nausea for anything else made with cheese. They didn’t laugh as loud but they smiled occasionally, remembering summer trips to the south and hot tubs in Alaska. Of course, that was all before the cancer came back again.
This time when they hold hands on the table, the only warmth comes from the candle in between them. People around them watch as he serenades her, singing unchained melody, the song of their first dance as man and wife.
“Marian, fifty years is an awfully long time is it not?”
“Indeed it is my teddy bear. A lot has changed, hasn’t it?” she answers
The waiter comes to clear their plates. He doesn’t offer dessert. The couple hadn’t made it to dessert last time. They’d fled back to the hotel to celebrate beneath the sheets ‘til morning.
Her rosé cheeks rise as she smiles and he can’t help but think about all the tears that have fallen down those same cheeks. How many tears had fallen down his own just thinking about how unhappy she was- not being able to bear children, living in fear that one day it may return with vengeance?
 “I am so sorry, my love.” He strokes her as if she might break.
“Theodore, you promised me you wouldn’t blame yourself. It seems God had plans for me that not even you could interfere with.”
Tears fill Marians eyes but they don’t fall down her face. In fact, they adorn her. Such strength would have made the perfect mother. He imagines her pushing the littluns’ on swings, reprimanding them for kicking footballs indoors. Moving her chair closer to his, she nestles her head between his neck and shoulder. He envelopes her small hands in his own wrinkly, spindly fingers. Her ring still shining- clean and new.
“Excusez-moi monsieur. I have the bill if you’re ready”
The gentleman takes the mini tray from the waiter and stares at the blank page attached.
“On the house Monsieur, I hope to see you again next year.”
“Maybe you will, my friend, maybe you won’t. It seems only God knows. He has plans that we cannot interfere with.” The waiter knowingly smiles at the Gentlemen and walks with him towards the exit.
“Bonne Chance, Monsieur. There is a light. I promise.”