Meeting place

The statue at St Michel hovers over the people mulling around. The dragons, one each side of him, spout water. The spot has become a meeting place for my girl friend and me because it is half way between her apartment where I stay with her whenever I am in Paris and the hospital where she works. Also it is only a block or so from the Latin Quarter where we stroll down ancient cobblestone streets with their restaurant windows filled with Gourmet-magazine photo quality windows filled with fish, meats and veggies on ice.

There the owners try and entice us in, promising the best meals ever.
But before we can decide on a restaurant we have to meet, and although the metro’s regularity in either of our directions is Swiss-clockmaker perfect (except in times of grève—strike) I usually arrive first and find myself waiting.
I like to wait, because I find myself surrounded by other waiters and half of me hopes that they find their friends before mine arrives because I like guess who it is that might be theirs.

Thus two Tuesdays before as I stood in the too-warm December air, I watched a businessman, his long black coat open, his hair more tailored than his suit pace back and forth between the dragons. Aha I thought, it must be her as a woman with ankle boots, a tweed skirt and black leather waist-length jacket strode towards him. They would be a perfect couple, but no, she walked past stopped and looked around. She was a waiter too.

Other people came and claimed those that were standing around, kissing on both cheeks and talking animatedly. They wandered off, some to the metro, some towards Notre Dame, one to the bookstore across the street.

Finally my friend appeared with apologies of being late. No matter. We crossed towards the Latin Quarter with a stop at the book store so she could check for a text she needs. When we emerged from the book store I looked over to St. Michel. The man and woman were still there, still waiting. Hunger is more important than discovering who they were waiting for, and I resisted the temptation to go back to them and encourage them to introduce themselves. However, if this were a French movie, it would be the start of a love affair.