Inside of a small café, somewhere near the outskirts of Paris. Warmly lit, orange lights line the ceiling, though only a few are lit, giving the space a darkly bright, almost cozy feeling. The light sounds of spoons clattering around mugs, of forks gently hitting saucers of small desserts, even with a room of so few people, it still seemed rather lively.
The smoky, bean-like aroma of coffee ran through the air, even before the single waitress brought around the rotund pitcher of the dark beverage, bending lightly over tables before inevitably pouring a mugful to some vagabond or silent artist, sitting still in one of the booths, pouring over a manuscript or screenplay.
It was midnight, and only the certain breed of people that relish this time of night remained in the world. The café sat on the corner of a small street, out of the way this far put from the city center. Tourists rarely came this far out, save for the few that enjoyed such things- experiencing the true life of a culture- the only sort of tourists most of this café's patrons were truly interested in.
Sitting away from the windows, in one of the farther booths of the café, sat Amélie Guillard, sitting beside a small instrument case, holding up sheets of paper in front of her, her finger wrapping around the paper to lift it up for her to read. Her eyes followed the sheet music, carefully, trying to hear the music as her eyes ran across the paper.
"If the sum – mer were a…"
She bit her lip, tensely, as her brow now furrowed in impatience. She was trying to imagine the tune in her mind, simply by looking at the notes, without taking the time to pull out her instrument. Besides, it wouldn't have been proper, here, in a small café this late at night. She ducked her head for a moment to collect herself before starting again.
"If the sum – mer were a lit -tle…"
She sighed under her breath, shaking her head before dropping the papers onto the table, simply reaching to her mug for a sip of her coffee. As she pulled her mug away from her lips, she hurriedly ran her tongue across the front of her teeth, as if doing her best to avoid staining them with the dark drink. Her eyes lingered around, carefully eyeing the bar in the middle of the room, watching the waitress collect some drinks onto her small tray.
Amélie's eyes followed her to a nearby table, now examining the young man sitter there, graciously accepting the glass handed to him before returning his full attention to the screen of his laptop. Perhaps she should get one as well? It would certainly help with transposing sound into pulses within her brain.
She returned to her table, gently holding onto her salt shaker, rolling it around in a circle upon her table as she thought, probably about tomorrow. She needed to be getting home soon, anyway. Her days alternated, and tomorrow was her day of ballet. She would need to relinquish her viola to the closet until next time.
As she thought, she stared blankly into the window in front of her, lining the outer wall of the café. Suddenly, a man appeared, almost in a hurry, walking along briskly with his head held low. Amélie watched him curiously, her head turning slowly as the man approached the corner, rounding it just until coming to the door of the café, ducking into the place hastily.
His focus remained on the window where Amélie had been looking herself, as if watching for any pursuers. He quickly dropped his coat down his shoulders, twisting it inside out, as it was reversible, the inside lining not only a different color but a different pattern. As he hastily walked further down the windows, Amélie's eyes darkened as he came closer to her table, she being very unhappy that he was doing so, probably knowing what he was thinking.
In a suddenly burst, he jumped toward her table, falling into the booth across from her, pulling the coat high over his shoulders, covering his torso and head, his body instantly becoming still. Amélie watched him, unenthused, though her focus quickly turned upward as a group of men angrily ran down the same line of windows, most of them rounding the corner. One, however, had peered into the windows of the café and stopped at its doorway, curiously peeling his head in.
Amélie turned back to the man at her table, angrily pulling her leg up before furiously kicking him in the stomach. Besides a small groan, nothing came from him, and she turned back to the goon entering the café, looking around rather viciously for his prey.
As he slowly walked along the booths, eventually he came closer and closer to Amélie, probably curious of the lump across from her. She watched him as their eyes met, her gaze full of antipathy at the idea of him bothering her.
He only watched her seriously, stopping at her table, stuffing his hands into his pockets as his body rolled back, as if trying to impress her, "'s that the man I'm lookin' fer?"
"He's my brother, if you have business with him," Amélie replied, assuredly, without breaking eye contact, "He's come home from out of town and was tired."
The goon was still curious, though the man's coat was certainly different from earlier. He sniffed menacingly, though one of his buddies hurried back to the door, jumping into the café and shouting.
"C'MON REILLY! WE GOT 'IM!"
The second guy ran back off, leaving the goon at Amélie's table alone again. He sniffled once more as he backed up slowly, before turning and walking off, quickly, toward the exit. He'd been so quick, the door hadn't closed, and the bell didn't ring, leaving Amélie's "visitor" remaining underneath his coat. She angrily pulled her leg back again, before immediately pelting him with kicks, repeatedly, until he finally cried out, rising up into the seat, his coat sliding off into the chair as he rubbed his arm.
"Y'know, that hurts," he muttered, disdainfully.
Amélie glared at him, "Then you should learn some manners."
The man watched her, but quickly lost his will, unable to argue with the fact that'd hed just hopped on in without explanation. He continued rubbing his arm, looking away as the waitress appeared, indifferently.
"Would you like something to drink?"
"Uh, yeah," the man answered, "And she deserves a…"
He quickly noticed that she'd already had a coffee, so he adjusted his order, "Uh, you have any cheesecake?"
The waitress nodded as she turned to walk away, the man leaning to the side as he reached for his wallet, fully aware of this woman's singe-worthy stare. He more or less ignored it instead folding up his coat beside him.
"I don't eat cheesecake," Amélie spoke quietly, almost breathlessly, as the man peered up at her.
"Oh, uh, I can get you-"
"Leaving me to my work would be apology enough," she muttered angrily.
The man chuckled nervously, "Oh. Okay, well thank you, ma'am."
He reached over for a handshake, though it was not reciprocated, so he simply smiled as he retrieved his hand, "I'm Michael. Hale. and it was a pleasure doing business with you."
She eyed him sarcastically, "Same here."
He chuckled as he slid out of the booth, walking on to another table nearby, sitting down as he pulled a folder from within his coat. Amélie rolled her eyes as she turned back to her sheet music, shaking her head. She took her mug, downing quite a bit of her coffee, the bitter taste serving to enhance the experience of whatever had just transpired.
The waitress returned, but Michael waved her over to his new table, though he didn't take the cheesecake, leaving the waitress to bring it over to Amélie. For a moment, she thought to send it back, but figured it would be worth this man's money to simply accept it and throw it out. It was expensive cheesecake; not that he'd know without a menu.
She pushed the cheesecake away, pulling her sheet music up, her eyes once again running down the bars of notes. She attempted to hear the music once more, the lyrics accompanying the music, again, used as a guide for her to follow.
"If the sum -…"
She bit back a furtive groan, her hand clenching further into a fist before she took a deep breath. She'd regressed. She couldn't believe she was having such difficulty with this- she'd been a ballerina all her life. She could move her body in time with music, could memorize melodies. But when put into such a blank, concrete form, she couldn't manage to hear what she knew was there.
She reached for her case, sighing, prepared to disturb the café, anyway, in an attempt to end her maddening cycle of futility. She needed to learn the piece anyway. As she grasped the ridged plastic, however, she suddenly heard a subtle humming coming from behind her. She slowly turned, noticing Michael there, hunched away from her as he wrote down on a small stack of his own papers, loudly humming to himself.
That wasn't as big of deal as what he was humming. It was from a ballet, one Amélia had performed in, years ago. Her eyes arrowed as she watched him, recognizing so intricately his melody, to the point where she saw the performance in her head.
She suddenly spoke up, rather loudly, "Michael Hale."
The man jumped at his name, turning slightly as he finished up, finally turning the whole way, his arm hanging off the back of the chair, "Yeah?"
"You know 'La Sylphide'?" Amelia inquired, curiously, though still with a bit of a scowl on her face.
Michael's face dropped with surprise, "Oh, uh, yeah. I saw it when it came through town last. Can't get it out of my head."
He began to chuckle as he scratched his chin, nervously, as Amélie asked further, "So you know music?"
Looking off into space, Michael nodded, "I suppose, yeah. I mean, it's not what I do professionally, but I play piano. Some guitar."
He thought of any other instruments before Amélie interrupted him, waving him over, impatiently. He turned back to finish something up at his table before standing up and walking over toward hers, gently pushing the saucer of cheesecake back toward the middle of the table, taking a seat as Amélie continued speaking.
"Here," she spoke, bluntly, handing him the sheet music, "Can you read this?"
He nodded simply, "Yeah. I jus-"
"Hum it," Amélie demanded, earning a stare from Michael, so she went on, "You wanted to thank me, correct? So? Hum it."
His brow curled insecurely as he eyed the restaurant, thinking they were far enough away from anybody else. He knew he'd been humming at his table, but if this woman had heard him…
Michael cleared his throat, shaking his head as he prepared, slowly eyeing the café once more before humming along to the tune, slower than the meter suggested, as he was going off of this for the first time. Amélie nodded approvingly as he did, recognizing the tune that the instructor had played before.
Eventually, however, Michael's head began to nod, slowly, as he became more and more engrossed in the music, speeding up, reading the lyrics. Eventually, he began to simply sing the words, albeit quietly.
"-and in the sum – mer shade, to – get –her with the – sun."
He finished, slowly dropping the sheet music onto the table, shrugging, "How was that?"
"Much better than myself," Amélie noted, blankly, collecting the sheets as she flipped through them once more.
Michael grinned, leaning back in his booth, "You seem bothered by that."
She glared at him over the papers for a brief moment before continuing down the sheets. Michael sat there for a few moments before gently sidling out of his seat, standing to return to his seat.
"Hey," Amélie spoke up, catching his attention, "What are you doing?"
"Grading papers," he answered with a smile that meant he knew she wouldn't believe him, "I'm a teacher, after all."
Sure enough, she eyed him suspicious, but he grabbed one of the papers from his stack and handed it to her. She went only it briefly before handing it back, shrugging.
"Look, just bring it all over here," Amélie quietly spoke up, indifferently, "Somebody has to eat this thing and I'm not going to touch it."
Michael gave a half-hearted grin before doing as she said, sitting across from her once again, sorting out his papers anew. He pulled out a green pen and started marking the pages, leaving Amélie unable to resist watching what it was he was doing.
"You're English?" she asked, sincerely.
He chuckled, not releasing his attention from the paper beneath him, "Almost. I'm American, actually."
"Well, that makes two things, in a row no less, that I find hard to believe."
Michael's head rose to reveal a wry grin before turning back down again, "Why's that? My French is too good?"
Amélie shrugged, "Pretty good, I'd say. There's nothing like growing up into the language, though. You enjoy the ballet, too. I thought Americans were too stupid for either of those things."
Smirking widely, Michael retorted, "Well now you know, I suppose. And I was always told Parisians were incredibly-"
He paused, suddenly noticing Amélie's intensely droll stare, just waiting for him to speak, which, of course, resulted in him not doing so. He simply bent his head down to take a sip of his coffee before clearing his throat.
"I'm from Annecy, don't worry," Amélie confirmed, amusedly, though still in her deadpan way.
Relieved, Michael chuckled slightly, "arrogant, was what I was going to-"
He suddenly turned to see the waitress at the table, staring down at him with a bemused expression. Michael smiled back, nervously, though she was sure to refill Amélie's mug with coffee, skipping his empty one, before walking off, rather elegantly for one upset.
"She may be from here," Amélie confirmed, closing her eyes as she sipped from her mug once more, wiping her teeth again with her tongue as she lowered the mug again.
"Ah," Michael nodded, knowingly, "You're a singer."
"Pardon?"
"Your teeth," he noted, "You're an actress or singer or something. You give performances or something- you're very conscious of your teeth."
Amélie's face lightly showed red as she started angrily at her guest, "So you're analyzing me?"
He laughed, "I'd be much too frightened to do such a thing to anybody with large instrument cases. It's just, you know, a thing; nothing big, right?"
She slowly returned her gaze to her sheet music, almost forgetting why she'd invited him to her table until he began to cut into his cheese cake. Thankfully, he'd gone into silence as he started grading his papers once again.
She only allowed herself cursory glances over toward him, trying to figure him out. Still not convinced that he was telling the truth, though conceding that the facts did seem to add up, she kept watch over him, carefully, caught between curiosity and that feeling a predator gets when stalking prey.
"What do you teach?" she asked, suddenly, "Looked like English."
Michael nodded, not lifting his head up as he gingerly wrote on one student's paper, "It is. I'm an English teacher in Paris; believe it or not, some people wish to learn it, even here. I make them write it down, though, instead of using computers- it helped me a great deal when I was learning French."
Amélie nodded slowly, "Uh huh, and how did you come about learning French at all? much less so well?"
As if expecting an interrogation, Michael grinned, dropping his pen onto the top sheet before shoving it aside, pulling his cheesecake closer, "Well, I've lived here about two years, now, teaching. That helped a great deal. As to why I learning it in the first place, I don't know. I've always been great at English, which explains my career choice, but French…"
He paused to think, shoving his fork down into his cheesecake, a soft clang pouring out as he broke through the crust, hitting the sauce beneath, "I don't know. I just like it, I suppose."
Amélie watched him carefully as he took a bite, looking off as if to avoid watching her as he chewed, before speaking up, "Okay, I think I deserve a few questions."
"As the man whom I rescued from some streetrats?" Amélie questioned, smugly.
Michael smiled, "No, but I didn't get an answer before. I'd eat one of these papers if I turned out to be wrong that you're a performer of some sort."
Amélie stared at him, her voice escaping ever so slowly, almost reluctantly, "Yes… I'm a ballet dancer."
"Really?" Michael asked with interest, "Okay, that explains La Sylphide. You must be good then. Been doing it your whole life?"
"Pretty much," she nodded, barely, "I've never been the type to fail at much, honestly. That's why this music thing bothers me so. I've had nothing but trouble since taking up the viola."
Michael eyed her case, curiously, "The viola? Madam, you accuse me of claims that are difficult to make sense of, yet you carry around a viola of all instruments."
Amélie shrugged, just visibly, "I figured I'd give it a shot, take some time off ballet. The viola was the only thing missing from the local amateur symphony group, so why not? Why? Is it a mythical instrument to you?"
"It could be," Michael smiled, "If you showed me it and a violin, I certainly couldn't tell the difference, personally. Just an interesting thing to hear."
He paused, his head moving slightly in confusion, "Much like your name, which I'm still unaware of."
As if it were a much more personal thing than anything else she'd spoken on, Amélie tensed, tapping her finger against the table absently, considering doing so, eventually speaking up, "Amélie."
"Amélie," Michael nodded slightly, as if tasting the name rolling of the tongue, "Well, there's no doubting you're French."
To this, Amélie gave only the slightest hint of a grin, untraceable by Michael, as she replied, "I'm not the one making outrageous claims."
Michael shrugged alongside his own smile, "I can't blame you; I get much the same from anybody."
Amélie nodded, "How did you come to teach here?"
Almost darkening, Michael lowered his head, reaching for his pen, "That's not something you'd care to know. Even if you did, it's not the sort of story I'd tell even to friends."
He paused for a moment, his eyes flashing up toward her, "Let's just say I simply felt like teaching here, that's all."
Amélie tilted her head in indifference, preparing for Michael's next question, though it took him a while. He returned to his grading, scribbling notes across the tops of each, in green pen, before giving a letter grade. Most of the student's writings were incredibly messy, though Amélie could easily tell which had been done by women rather than men.
"Why were you running?" she asked, quietly.
Michael grinned, lifting his head to reveal his boyish smile, "I gave a bad tip, it seems. They noticed my glasses, briefcase, and tie, and I guess they figured I was a teacher or, at least, somebody learned. Asked me which horse to bet on, showed me an intricate list of statistics they must have pilfered online."
He chuckled to himself, "English is about the farthest from statistics that you can get, though, but I wasn't about to upset some street toughs. I gave them the best answer, left, and on my way to look for a place to grade papers, they came out of nowhere, yelling at me in some French accent I couldn't understand."
"Then you so graciously welcomed me at your table," he finished with flair, though Amélie remained unamused.
She only shook her head as she reached for her coffee, "You're certainly an interesting man, Michael Hale."
He grinned in acknowledgement, "Really?"
"Well," Amélie continued, "You're an interesting sort of stupid, perhaps."
At that, Michael burst out into a laugh, quickly covering his mouth so as to not disturb the other patrons, save for the waitress, who still eyed him from the counter. He nodded his head agreeably.
"Well, it would certainly seem that way in your shoes, I suppose," he nodded, reaching for his mug, only to realize that it hadn't been filled, forcing another soft laugh from him, "I just keep making enemies tonight, it seems."
Amélie watched him, almost pitiably, behind her blank face. She turned, waving at the waitress, who attentively approached the table, going on to refill Michael's drink at Amélie's behest, her open hand directing her as such. She didn't bother acknowledging Michael, though must have recognized Amélie as a regular, he figured, before she walked off.
"In the States, waitresses work on tips, you know," Michael noted, reaching for his mug, "Here, it certainly pays to not piss off the waitress."
Amélie shook her head, almost in quiet disbelief, "For one from such an uncivilized life, you seem to-"
She paused, remembering how she first came to come across this man, shaking her head, "Never mind."
He only grinned at her, grabbing for his pen again.