Someone had once told him that to love was to lose all hope. Someone with a deep throaty voice and whisky on his breath. Growled into his ears.
He tried to remember who it had been but was distracted by the sickly woman sitting at the table in the opposite corner. She was greedily eating the stale bread and lumpy soup that this bistro called food. Scooping tiny pieces onto her spoon, her face lighting up with every, delectable bite.
The waiters were tired now, gently reminding themselves that this day was almost past. They walked with heavy feet and hunched backs. The street outside was quiet but for the occasional drunkard stumbling back home. Slurring and singing his way to bed.
“Whatever you do son, don’t you fall in love. Poisons the mind and kills the soul.”
He searched his pockets for loose change and watched disappointment creep across the waiter’s face. The coins clattered in the tiny plate and the waiter took his time collecting the tip. “A cheap one”. He was used to that, no longer did he feel the burning embarassment.
He was almost the last one to leave, the dainty woman was still hunting down the remaining crumbs. She looked like she had not eaten in days and her dress was all patched up.
He walked out alone, humming bits and pieces of his favourite song. The one where the gorgeous actress walks through the rain-fed streets of the big city. So beautiful in her loneliness and so seductive in her vulnerability.
As he climbed his way up to his home, he decided that he would not kill himself tonight. Maybe tommorrow or the day after.
Today had been a good day.