Conversation for a Summer Night

The first summery night I headed for the Café du Soleil. The manager Olivier, who I hadn’t seen in a couple of months, a record of time away, triple-kissed my cheeks and without my even asking pointed to where my writing mate was waiting for me on the upper terrace.

It stays light until well after nine, so we felt no rush as we ate. For almost 12 years we have supported each other in our writing attempts. Because we worked across the street from one another there would be emergency coffees or lunches as we critiqued each other’s work. The critiquing helped us become better writers. The moral support saw us through rejections. We would celebrate non form rejections offering encouragement, and we celebrated our acceptances.

Our lives are changing. We no longer rely on each other to approve each word. Our self confidence has grown. We can hear the other’s suggestions in our heads even as they flow from our brains to our fingers. We might still ask what do we think about this or that.

Despite my dropping the pepper mill that luckily didn’t hit anyone sitting below and confusion about my order, we caught up on what we doing. She is an Australian of German parents, married to an Austrian, living in France and working in Switzerland. Transitioning into retirement she is on the final steps of her move to Vienna. She was just back from giving a paper in Montreal. I told her where I was on my various projects, how lucky I was to have the right guide in Syria to visit Ebla and how he put me in touch with the man who translated the cuneiform letters from 2000 B.C. and how I would meet that man in Rome in July. When we talk about individual work, we know each others characters much like we know living/breathing friends.

Although she offered to drive me home to the other side of the lake, I suggested we wait for my tram. A man from our writing group appeared after attending a meeting on ending world poverty. A political conversation began.

A woman, an intern at the UN who arrived at the stop, added her opinions. Another man approached and joined in. The tram came, and my two writer friends went their way. The two new comers and I continued the discussion on the tram. The man had his groceries and kidded about preparing us a meal. A Dalmatian, who got on the trolley, checked out the bags, didn’t find anything of interest, and laid his head in my lap. He had no opinion at all.