A Brunch with Death
It’s a warm spring day with clear blue skies. Children skip around the fountain that spurts water in symmetrical arcs around Poseidon’s oxidized green eyes. Pollen swirls and shuffles along the gutters of the city streets, lying in wait for unsuspecting pedestrians en route to the open air market, which is alive with the smell of seafood. Fruit vendors peel the rinds off mandarins and offer samples to wandering passerby, shouting bargains in booming voices. A few white herring gulls soar overhead, waiting for the parking lot to empty to score fresh scraps.
All walks of life mingle here. Young wives push strollers through the crowd and argue for a better price while their husbands try to reel in misbehaving boys and girls on scooters. Elderly women pull wheeled shopping bags and touch every single cantaloupe and avocado. Old men count out exact change with gnarled and sausaged fingers. The seasons may vary, but this weekly ritual remains the same.
Further down the boulevard is a string of restaurants and pubs, spotted with bus stops, jewelry stores, banks, and cafés. There are awnings and portable blackboards scrawled with chalk invitations to indulge in happy hour. Conversation blooms in shadowed places. One restaurant is serving brunch, reservation only.
Inside, it’s nearly packed. The decor is purposefully outdated, with ads for old-timey kitchen appliances framed on the pale yellow-papered walls. The floor has a marbled three-dee effect. It’s extra noisy because a group of six ladies have commandeered a central table and can’t be bothered with the lives of others. The many different couples are lined up along a wall. It’s funny because the women all sit on the pillowed banquette and their men sit across from them slouched in meshed metal chairs.
There’s a self-service island table of jams and jellies and other spreadables, plus the obligatory bottles of maple syrup. The service staff is brisk and forgetful, but friendly. The men are dressed like hipster lumberjacks, with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. The women wear slacks or skirts and starched white blouses.
One couple sits among the others and notes the surrounding absurdities. The table is overflowing with food. There are croissants, pancakes, yogurt with muesli and raisins, and half-spheres of passion fruit. A large wooden slab contains the warm and salty delicacies that help make brunch equal to a lunch.
“Do you think,” the man asks, “the combination of lunch and dinner would be called ‘linner’? Or perhaps ‘dunch’ instead?” He sits back in his chair and waits for a reply.
His girlfriend slathers the bottom half of a baguette with a thick glob of Nutella and raises an eyebrow, then takes a sip of orange juice. This is the man who she hopes will propose before the end of the year. It’s time, she’s reasoned, plus that other clock is ticking.
It’s nice to get outside again after being cramped up all winter. The couple beside them is discussing politics, and it’s clear they’re at odds about the direction the country should take. Left, right, up, down — who’s to say what’s the best direction?
A long rectangular mirror is hung on the wall above the banquette, providing the perfect opportunity to people watch with a panoramic view. Life is a composition of bustle and toil, rest and recoil, stitched together with ribbons of laughter.
Stomachs are full and this feels good. Another successful outing. The couple debates what to do next once they’ve paid and posted pics to Instagram.
“Maybe a walk in the garden?” she asks.
He’s about to answer, but then sneezes and blows his nose and she knows that’s probably out of the question. It’s not important, really. They’ll walk along the sunny sidewalks and dusty cobblestone paths, maybe, until they tire and want to rest.
The huge glass display windows frost over with spiderweb cracks and implode before there’s any sound or measured reaction. Then comes the fire and boom. The broken glass tinkles to the floor and everyone is so scared and confused that they forget to scream. A duo of machine guns chatter and several tires squeal.
Outside is pandemonium. Police whistle and shout and more shots are fired. Pleas for calm as people flee.
The restaurant is in disarray. Tables and chairs are upturned and food is scattered everywhere. Spilt coffee touches pools of blood, but the two don’t mix.
Heavy breathing in the aftershock, a surge of adrenaline, waiting for some signal or indication that everything is all clear. Ambulance sirens pierce through the smoky air.
The woman crawls to her boyfriend. He’s lying prone on the ground, bleeding from the head. She cradles him and cups a hand to his cheek and whispers, “Don’t worry, my love. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
The End
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