office âwhen he got the chance,â then sheâd been troubled and offended beyond words. The small offenses irritated mostâthe effort she had expended after work, before arriving at the cafe, touching up her makeup, fixing her hair, changing into clothes he liked, the time sheâd squandered during the day imagining their meeting, rehearsing their embraceâalthough the larger implications were unignorable and frightening. The pattern was familiar. This was
the third time in ten days that he had let her down in one way or another. This was the third cheating husband in the last two years who had disillusioned her. She took the hint. She felt the chill. Another cooling, flagging man was scuttling from her life.
Sheâd started out the day as a woman with some status, not bloated with self-regard like some people she could name but confident enough to know that she was valued somewhere. Whenever she was waiting in the cafeâan almost daily routine for the past three monthsâshe had a purpose and a role. She was the early half of a couple, waiting to be validated by her manâand that was satisfying. The owner and the little waitress understood that she would arrive before the boyfriend, that she would order a coffee andâoccasionallyâa glass of mineral water. They were used to her eager nervousnessâthe frequent checking in the little vanity mirror she carried in her purse, her habit of shaking her watch as if to hasten time, the way she stared into her book, her writing pad, her newspaper, but never seemed to turn a page. And then, when he arrived, the lover always just a little bit too late but standing over her at last to stoop a kiss onto her cheek, theyâd be familiar with his embrace, her hand bunched up across his back.
Some days theyâd only stay at the table for a few moments and then depart separately. The briefest meeting, just to hug. Once in a while, theyâd share a beer, though clearly the man was not comfortable in such a public place. On other days, theyâd go off hand in hand to possibly a restaurant or the hotels on the wharf. Then their passion would be almost palpable. It made her beautiful, the waitress thought.
Where was the beauty, though, in being so publicly stood up? Her borrowed husband could at least have called her to the cafe ownerâs telephone, to whisper in her ear from his safe distance with his excuses and apologies. Why would he be so cowardly as to trust his betrayals to a messenger if he were not ashamed? Or lying? Sheâd had to smile and nod and seem wholly unperturbed when the cafe ownerâthe co-conspirator, it seemed to herâhad come to pass on the shaming news: âYour friend said to tell you that heâll phone tomorrow, when he gets the chance.â She felt exposed. Demeaned. A woman with no purpose in that cafe. She could drink a thousand coffees there and still not count as half a couple waiting for completion. She was a laughingstockâa woman revealed as exactly what she wasâunmarried, only half successful in her work, the tenant of a less than homely apartment shared with two women just as unfulfilled as she was, reliant on the rationed attentions of a married lying man with children and a home heâd never abandon. She could hardly hold her coffee cup without shaking, she was so angry and upset. The evening had been so promising. They had planned to spend some time together in a restaurant, the famousâand expensiveâHabit Bar where all the singers and the actors went. Thereâd be no grubby hour in a hotel room before he hurried home on this occasion. Thereâd just be food and wine and romance. Sheâd always liked that better than the sex. Love must be fed or it grows thin.
What occurred, then, to turn this calamity on its head and rescue the evening? What took her up the stairs to Lixâs unappealing room? An almost-strangerâs room? It must have been