It was a calm evening. Pre-dusk. The kind where the sun leaked through the windows just right and bathed the entire café in a pleasant sepia hue. The effect caused the glass in the frames mounted all on the walls to reflect the dim golden light across the entire room; paintings momentarily hidden behind the luminance. And a man stood behind the counter, content by simply drying empty pitchers with a white rag that really shouldn't be used to dry things with, watching his present customers (a mother, a daughter, a father, a son,- a family) quietly eat their meal between giggles and happy conversation. The man would set the glass down as he accepted the father's payment with a kind smile, then watched them leave- the mother hugging her son and daughter as the father jogged almost desperate to catch up.
It was a calm evening. Pre-dusk. The kind where Arnaud G. Vasquez would watch the sun leak through the windows just right, watch the rays sneak under the door and sigh at himself. And he would tuck in the chairs, and he would dust the tables, and he would wash dishes, then sit with his feet propped up on the counter knowing that no other customers would come for the night. And his daughter would be asleep beside him, her little head nuzzled in the cradle of her arms on the counter. She would mumble nonsense to her dreams, and wearily open her eyes to find her father smiling lightly at her. She would forget this incident later, when she was awake. Arnaud let her sleep and she would contentedly continue doing so.
And he sighed at himself again, rocking slightly back in his chair and watching his shadow stretch diagonally beside him, and he would wonder and think about people he loved but oft forgot.
He would wonder how many days, and weeks, and months, and years a small boy could wait before getting older and wiser and giving up hope and faith.
He would wonder how mightily a little girl could try to console a boy and reassure him with false promises that his friends would arrive soon, and they would be happy and smile then share with each other all the fantastic stories each had experienced while apart.
And he wondered how many birthdays and holidays would pass before that little boy and that little girl would stop expecting them to return.
And he imagined how sad they would both be when he told them about Her.
And Arnaud would look at his daughter, and he would stroke the hair out of her tiny sleeping eyes, and he would think of her mother and he would miss her with such ache that his whole heart felt bruised and worn and tired.
He would gaze at the paintings on the wall, the restaurant now dull with twilight, and stare at one of the last pictures She created. A little boy, a little girl, herself, and himself.
And he would sigh.
And he would wonder how much time had passed, and if he would even recognize them anymore.
/end