Post by The Exodus on May 7, 2013 20:29:12 GMT -6
Natalie Blackwood
Natalie often protested that she hated Paris, but there was no denying it was beautiful in the rain. She sat in bistro in the Latin Quarter now – table for one – and stared out the window at the tempest outside. The sky was the color of steel and it contrasted sharply with the ivory buildings in the area. She was glad to be indoors, with a nice cup of tea, instead of battling the wind and water. She watched with a touch of schaddenfreude as a stranger’s umbrella was turned inside out and carried down the block.
Many of Natalie’s nights ended like this of late: sitting in a café alone, enjoying a meal that she wasn’t forced to cook herself. She had few friends in Paris; since the divorce, she’d been alone most of the time. Her sisters worried that it would do her head in. It hadn’t. Her waistline had taken a hit, of course, but her sisters didn’t need to know that in the last year, she’d put on a full stone in weight. It was that cursed French cuisine, smothered in butter. And the flaky, golden-brown pastries. Natalie had never been particularly good at resisting temptation, but now that she wasn’t concerned with looking sleek and slim for the British press or for a successful and busy husband, resistance was futile.
She’d devoured an appetizer by herself already and was waiting on her main course when the first roar of thunder shook the restaurant windows. It startled her and she spilled hot tea all over her table. A little splashed up onto her hands and she winced, putting the teapot down with a graceless clatter. She would have sworn, if she were the swearing type. Instead, she looked at the sorry mess around her and shook her head. She caught sight of the napkin dispenser at her table: empty. Then, ever pragmatic, she spied a girl sitting by her lonesome, too. Natalie rose to her feet and crossed to where the girl sat.
“Excuse me,” she said, massaging her burned hand. “Do you have a few napkins you can spare?”
Natalie often protested that she hated Paris, but there was no denying it was beautiful in the rain. She sat in bistro in the Latin Quarter now – table for one – and stared out the window at the tempest outside. The sky was the color of steel and it contrasted sharply with the ivory buildings in the area. She was glad to be indoors, with a nice cup of tea, instead of battling the wind and water. She watched with a touch of schaddenfreude as a stranger’s umbrella was turned inside out and carried down the block.
Many of Natalie’s nights ended like this of late: sitting in a café alone, enjoying a meal that she wasn’t forced to cook herself. She had few friends in Paris; since the divorce, she’d been alone most of the time. Her sisters worried that it would do her head in. It hadn’t. Her waistline had taken a hit, of course, but her sisters didn’t need to know that in the last year, she’d put on a full stone in weight. It was that cursed French cuisine, smothered in butter. And the flaky, golden-brown pastries. Natalie had never been particularly good at resisting temptation, but now that she wasn’t concerned with looking sleek and slim for the British press or for a successful and busy husband, resistance was futile.
She’d devoured an appetizer by herself already and was waiting on her main course when the first roar of thunder shook the restaurant windows. It startled her and she spilled hot tea all over her table. A little splashed up onto her hands and she winced, putting the teapot down with a graceless clatter. She would have sworn, if she were the swearing type. Instead, she looked at the sorry mess around her and shook her head. She caught sight of the napkin dispenser at her table: empty. Then, ever pragmatic, she spied a girl sitting by her lonesome, too. Natalie rose to her feet and crossed to where the girl sat.
“Excuse me,” she said, massaging her burned hand. “Do you have a few napkins you can spare?”
