Michael slumped over the table almost lifelessly, staring blankly at the single franc coin he had been fiddling with in his hand. He sat it on its side and spun it around, watching it, unamused, as it lazily spun in a hectic circle for only a moment before falling to the table with a clanging sound. He sighed, looking up toward the top of the wall at a hanging clock, before returning his attention to the old coin, spinning it once again.
A light snow had begun to glide down to the ground outside the windows, catching his attention as his eyes slowly turned toward the large pane of glass that wrapped almost around the whole of the café. The rapid wiggling of the coin atop the table slowed before it made a dull thud, hitting its broadside down against the wood. Michael turned his hand to lift it up again, but froze as his eyes noticed the visage of Amélie seeming to be standing in the window, staring sidelong into the café at him.
His eyes shut for a few moments before opening again, as if in an attempt at casting away a dream, and sure enough, by the time he looked again, she'd disappeared. Of course, in that moment, he noticed a blur of a figure rounding the corner toward the door, sure enough, the body of Amélie Guillard stepping into the warm café, gently yanking off her scarf.
Her expression seemed slightly more unamused than usual as she approached the booth where she'd already spent two nights with the man already sitting there, his body slowly lifting up from the table as he slid the coin along with him, watching Amélie curiously enough. They didn't speak as she stopped above him, folding her scarf and staring it atop the table before pulling of her coat, revealing most of her flamboyantly designed dress which immediately caught Michael's eye, though not exactly in a good way.
"One could assume you live here," Amélie quipped, "Judging by how often you're here, that is."
Michael eyed her sardonically, his voice dry, "And one could assume you were truthful when you said you had an event this evening."
Amélie sighed as she took a seat, "I did. It's still going on, actually."
She pulled her phone out, checking it to find no reply yet, shutting it back off and placing it on the table, "It's just very much out of my element for one so quiet as me."
Michael nodded, "You know, I did think it was odd. It must be a relief on stage to hid behind a role and express yourself through a character."
He toyed with the coin in his hand still, staring down at it as he spun it between two fingers, his eyes peering up at her from his downturned head, "You know, for somebody so prepared to tell me how I feel about you, you certainly leave very little to the imagination when it comes to the opposite."
"Oh really?" Amélie answered, more as a challenge.
Michael nodded, "You just can't help but keep coming here, for starters."
She rolled her eyes, "Excuse me; I believe this was my place before you decided to invade it. I'm merely returning to my favorite care."
"Surely you knew I'd be here tonight," Michael shrugged.
Amélie's eyes scorched his own as she stared him down, "And what exactly are you trying to prove?"
"Nothing really," Michael answered innocently, returning to playing with his coin in his hands, "It just bothered me how you so blatantly figured you'd dictate my feelings."
He sighed, leaning back in his seat. He looked off toward the door, his arms stretched out across the table as he relinquished the piece in his hand. His palms fell flat as his chest grew in his exhalation, finally turning back toward Amélie with a slightly despondent expression.
"You truly are a terrible type of person, you know."
"Excuse me?" she replied quickly, slightly offended by the statement.
He leaned toward her over the table, "I didn't want this. Especially not with an engaged woman. Yet you led me on and waited for forever to explain that, I'd say, major fact?"
His back met the padding of the booth as he leaned back again, massaging his face with his hands, exasperatingly, "And, god damn, you had to be amazing. Fuck."
Amélie's face softened as she listened to his words, though she had grown slightly annoyed with his insinuations, which she voiced as much as she replied, "So you're blaming me for your feelings?"
He groaned, pulling his hands down, "Of course not; I'm just-"
"Because it's a gad damn shame that I lack the venom to blame you for how I feel," she interrupted, angrily.
Michael watched her for a moment, their eyes meeting before he ran his hand through his hair, sighing quietly before going on, "Sorry."
The air grew quiet, almost awkwardly so. Amélie quickly recognized the usefulness of a mug of coffee for just these sorts of occasions, and wished she'd had one ordered. She tried stealing a glance up toward Michael, just barely noticing him slouching into himself, his arms hanging down under the table as remained there, quietly.
Thankfully, a waitress arrived with two mugs, recognizing the both of them, and still giving Michael a rather disapproving stare, though he looked up at her with the same sincere smile as always. Amélie couldn't get to her drink fast enough, though still politely brought it up to her lips, assuring she didn't make eye contact with Michael as her head tilted backward.
She realized just how comfortable she was with this man; had it been her fiancée, she wouldn't have dared snap back at him in such a way. She felt a twinge of guilt, though even that began to fade as the two of them lost themselves in their respective drinks.
Lost in her thoughts, Amélie ran her tongue across her teeth as she lowered her mug, her eyes shooting up toward Michael as she realized what she'd done. He only grinned, somewhat mischievously, causing her to sigh as she sat back in her seat."
She rolled her eyes, repeating what she'd said to her fiancée just earlier that night, "I know it doesn't work; but j just do it anyway."
Michael shrugged as he brought his tea up to his face, pulling in his lips as he spoke, "Sounds like my "ex"."
Amélie could only remain dignified for but a moment before she leaned forward, laughing brightly until a quietly cute sort of snort broke through, her eyes shooting wide as her hands shot to her face in terror. She watched Michael, awaiting his side comment, but he only chuckled, smiling as he placed his tea down.
"Beautiful laugh," he admired, plainly.
She quickly blushed, lowering her head in embarrassment, almost as if to hide, but Michael gradually noticed her body shaking, this quiet, demure woman availing herself as her laughter continued. He couldn't help but join in himself, the two laughing lightly at the scene that had just played out before the two of them.
"Sorry," Michael muttered, dismissively, "That was uncalled for. The compliment, I mean."
Amélie eyed him curiously, "Why? It wasn't the first time you complimented an engaged woman; wouldn't I be the one to decide whether or not it's appropriate?"
She lowered her head mischievously, "Or do you not think I'm that loyal?"
Michael cupped his hands around his large mug of tea, staring down at its miniscule, rippling waters, running through cursory thoughts before slowly beginning to answer, "I think…"
Without raising his head, his eyes met hers like a mildly ashamed puppy, "I think you're as confused as I am about all this."
"Okay," she quickly shot back, "Then let's end the confusion, alright? I'm to be wedded in three days, forever bound to a man that isn't you. You seem to have some conservative views, but that in no way means that I'm forced to eliminate our friendship, correct?"
Michael thought over her words for a bit, sighing as he scratched his cheek, "Look, I-"
He groaned, running his hand from his cheek up and across his face, exasperated, "I don't know if you understand what this is like from my perspective; it-"
Pausing, his two hands ran atop his head as his body slouched forward, almost trying to hide as best he could before mustering the rest of his words, "I know we just met, but… It hurts to think of you with somebody. I don't know if we could be friends; I mean, I don't think so."
Amélie watched him curiously with only a slightly confused expression as he went on, quietly, "I don't know if you understand what it's like to be around somebody amazing, knowing that it's something that you'll never have. That's a kind of pain, you know, that's difficult to bear."
Dropping her gaze, Amélie's lips contorted as her mind wondered, silently, "I suppose I didn't understand. Would a similar thing be true, seeing you, knowing that I'm bound to a man who can't see beyond the shallow waters that you simply manage to traverse so easily?"
Michael grinned boyishly, "I suppose that would be similar."
Amélie slowly pulled her hand up, which bore her phone, placing the thin device on the table. She switched it on, sliding it over toward Michael for a view, his face darkening for only a moment before realizing what he was seeing. It was a text conversation; one where Amélie had let her fiancée, Gérard Lacroix, know that she would be leaving. There was no reply. In the margin for the draft of Amélie's next message, the words 'I love you' were typed there- though it had gone unsent, presumably because he hadn't replied yet.
Michael's eyes looked up toward Amélie, whose expression was one of loneliness, her voice carrying the same lack of emotion, however, "He's still partaking in his true interest back at the party. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but…"
She turned away, almost ashamed at speaking her next words in front of a man whose only partner had taken advantage of him, "Sometimes you just need somebody to be there. I don't think I'm too much to handle, you know; just a moment to let me know I'm…"
Trailing off as she noticed Michael's distant expression, she sighed, pulling her phone back toward her, "We're getting married in three days and not once have I ever told him I've loved him. This would mark the first."
She shut the phone off before spinning it in slow circles underneath her fingers, her voice almost a whisper as she went on, "Want to play a game?"
Intrigued, Michael sat back in his seat, "What kind of game?"
Amélie shrugged, "I've already hurt you, correct?"
Michael's eyes narrowed as he ran her words through his mind, examining each and every sound that she had uttered, "…in a matter of speaking. Not that it's your fault or anything; I'm the hopeless romantic who can't keep his heart in his pants."
Amused, Amélie chuckled behind her closed lips, shaking her head quickly to dismiss him, "So, if we spend a night together, on the town, wherever, it wouldn't hurt any more than it already does, would it? I mean, we still won't see each other again, according to you."
Michael lowered his head in thought as Amélie went on, "If my husband-to-be doesn't reply before we leave here, I'll walk you to the train station. Fitting, I suppose, since you escorted me the first time we'd met. How's that?"
Silent, Michael's lips pulled together, forcefully, in conflicting thought. It was true, he thought; no matter what, whether they parted now or later, he knew his heart would ache regardless. Why not allow this dream to continue, if only for even a moment, he wondered.
"Okay," he muttered weakly before shrugging himself, "Why not?"
He reached over to grab his coat, scooting out of the booth, smirking, "I think it's time I headed out."
"That's cheating," Amélie grinned back.
Michael shook his head as he dropped his coat back beside him, "Like this game has a rule book."
Amélie carefully brought her mug to her lips, sipping at her coffee as her eyes closed, enjoying the aroma before her hands fell away, "We're trend-setters."
"I'm not sure engaged women engaging in such things should be a trend, but, you know."
Amélie smirked again, just as mischievously as the last, "So you wouldn't want your fiancée doing such a thing?"
Michael shook his head, "Well, I would assume I'd have given her no reason to have to do such things. But to be more specific, no; I'd want her all to myself. I'd make every moment magic, every meal delicious, every kiss passionate. We'd have no reason to not seek out each other's arms."
He smiled, lowering his head, "Everybody goes on and on about 'firsts' and all that, and how romantic that idea is. First kisses, first fucks, first…well, you know, all that stuff. But take it from a romantic; there's nothing more romantic than being somebody's last. She would be the last person I would kiss, the last person I'd hold. The last person I'd make love to. All that 'firsts' stuff is for kids."
Shaking his head, Michael began to laugh as he pulled his mug in for a sip of tea, "But that's just me; I don't know."
He gently sipped at his tea while Amélie looked on, distantly, lost in his words, before he went on, warmly, "That's why you hurt me so much. I could pull you in for a kiss, right now, get slapped, end up on a tabloid cover for kissing the fiancée of a renowned man; I'll never be your last."
He sighed, "I'm sort of an old soul in that respect, I suppose. One of the reasons I love Europe is just how old it is, how traditional, how easy it seems to be able to be transported to when chivalry was alive; when men feared tongues and pens as much as swords. When the world was so small, all you had was yourself and the woman at your side."
Michael's gaze has wavered as he'd lost himself in his own world, suddenly coming back to reality with a futile shrug, returning to his tea with a simple, "But it's now. I suppose I should be happy to be born late than early- at least I can look back on those times."
Amélie's head had dipped to where she could see her hands as they had worked their way under the table, her fingers entwined as she listened to him. She reached into her dress, into her pocket, lightly running her fingers over that silver pendant that signified his likeness to her, her eyes softening ever so slightly at the thought.
"[Hope]," Michael suddenly muttered in English, bluntly, forcing Amélie's head to whip up curiously.
"What?"
He reached over to the far end of the table, his fingers curling around a seemingly vacant spot before returning to him. He revealed his palm, a spider crawling around disjointedly across his skin, pausing, and then skittering off in another direction, only to have Michael reach his other hand in its path for it to continue atop of him.
"What was it; "araignée du soir, espoir"? Evening spider means hope?" Michael recalled, curiously.
Amélie frowned, "I believe it means that your night has been ruined by the spider, so you can be hopeful that tomorrow will be better, simply because there won't be a spider."
She eyed him critiqueingly, understanding their immediate comparison to her being the spider, given their previous conversations, though Michael only chuckled, "No no; take it from a French teacher."
"An American French teacher," Amélie corrected, slightly teasing.
Michael nodded sardonically, "Yes, yes, I know. But in this case, the morning spider signifies grief; how can the night spider mean something similar?"
He eyed the cell phone, which remained still, "I suppose we'll see, won't we?"
Amélie's eyes closed as her brow jumped up in incredulity, bringing her mug for another sip, "Enjoy it. You won't be seeing any spiders in the morning, my friend, regardless."
Michael grinned at her rather playful insinuation, though it easily could have been taken as flirtation, "And what's with that, anyway? Aren't Scorpios, you know, scorpions?"
"They're both arachnids," Amélie shrugged, "And it's not as if I need validation. If I like spiders, I'll see myself in comparison to spiders."
She grinned only lightly, narrowing her eyes, "And, yes, I may not have a stinger, but I still bite."
Michael nodded sarcastically, "Yeah, with those legs of yours, kicking anybody in your path."
