A Vignette

Because I hate flash fiction, I thought it would be a good idea to attempt some.

A Tase for the Finer Things

He was a tall, broad man, but his hands swam in the sleeves of his suit. Boxy and oversized, it had the sparkle of cheap costume polyester. With it, he wore a red bowtie, which made him look like a member of the Nation of Islam, or a waiter, but he wore it proudly, like a boy in his father’s suit. He wanted his espresso in a china cup – something about it makes the coffee taste better, he says, stirring in careful spoonfuls of sugar, and smiles to show he’s savoring it.

“You’ve got a good machine. I can tell. One of the old ones.”

Like an iceberg, his path is wide, but precise. Subtle. He asks before making room at the counter next to the old woman and her breakfast.

“Are you married?” he asked. “I just bought my wife a ring. We’ve been married for six years.”

“Yes. Sixty years.”

“That’s amazing,” he said, and paused, considering the next fifty four years, and how he’d spend them. She’d never quite thought of it that way. It was just how things were done. “No one really respects marriage anymore.”

“No, you’re right. It’s just not valued these days.” She had a lilting English accent like a storybook narrator’s: gentle, but insistent. “I met my husband when we were twenty years old.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yes.” He finished the coffee and smiled.

“I hope you’re married a hundred years.” She was perplexed, but she thanked him, because he seemed genuine.

“Have a nice day.”

“And you have an even better day!”

When the woman had finished, she brought her plate up front. “That croissant was excellent,” she said. “Just like in France.”