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Forced to share a table, they talked for hours. Her smile was mesmerizing. He held her hand. Her French accent wasn't real, but he didn't care. They agreed to meet for dinner, 9 pm in the same Arles cafe.
But she didn't show. The cafe window reflected his sad, lonely face. Tomorrow he would take the noon train to Bordeaux, then the 6 pm ferry back to his dismal life in London.
Hidden, she watched him at the cafe. Her ruse was not intended to harm: the fake French accent, pretending to be Parisian, but not to find love. Her tears distorted the vibrant colors of the cafe and starry sky above.
Better he have the memory than know the lie. The next day she would go home to her life as a poor housemaid: Noon train to Bordeaux, 6 pm ferry to London.
Love would have a second chance.
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