Demon Stories

Josephine: Pollo and Poulet, 1947, New York City

Josephine

Pollo and Poulet

1947, New York City

"Sorry, my English is not very good," he told me ashamedly as we shyly looked at each other across the table.

"It is better than you think," I smiled warmly to him.

His mouth opened slightly in surprise, then he returned the smile looking genuinely touched.

We were seated together in the general dining room of the upscale Blue Rivers restaurant. His suit looked borrowed, too short on him and too large in the shoulders. He was a tall man and very lean. I secretly felt so thankful he was taller than me. This had been a problem for me in the past. Even not wearing heels hadn't solved the problem before, but now I could wear all the heel I wanted. I was so happy. As an added bonus, he made me appear shorter.

His eyes were observing me, which caused me to feel small tickles all over my body as if someone were breezing fuzzy pussywillow branches just past my skin. His eyes were so large with a lot of the whites showing, but in the middles were shiny light brown irises like chocolate pieces. His expression was so nervous but so soft. 

I wanted to start a conversation with him, even if he couldn't speak English very well as he said. Because of his English skills, I would keep it light and easy to understand. But I couldn't think of what to say. My brain had turned fuzzy like the pussywillows. I would have gotten frustrated at this, but something about his searching eyes calmed me like a loving magic spell.

"What will you order?" he suddenly asked.

I felt great relief. So he had thought of something to say instead. 

"Probably the boeuf bourguignon. What will you order?" I asked.

"It is...ah...it is...how do you say..."

He looked so adorable as he searched for the words, his lovely eyes looking up at the ceiling as if it would answer for him. 

"...The bird? It is white many times, it says..." And then he made the clucking noise of a chicken. I had to stifle a giggle in my throat as to not possibly insult him. 

"Chicken!" I exclaimed, grinning.

He clapped his hands together once in the moment of comprehension. "Yes! This one! We call it pollo in Puerto Rico. I love this animal."

I laughed now and he laughed with me, and I felt relief in the moment of sharing emotion with him. My heart begged for us to be closer so we could share even more, but unfortunately we had just met that afternoon. It would take too long. I wanted to know him now!

"We call it poulet in France," I said to him, wanting so much for him to speak again.

"Ah, they are sound same almost," he said, his eyes smiling at me in the joy of knowing our languages were similar.