How to Talk to Strangers, Pt. 2

      There’s a little cafe on the corner where the buildings huddle together at the bend, and past their angled edges you can sight the line of the beach, over the hill like a hump as it rolls into sand.
      I sit at the little cafe most days and drink sweet coffee or sparkling mayim, little round table, dark  glasses on when the sun hangs at offense, though she could never truly offend me. The coffee always tastes so sweet and I must sip it slowly, dabbing at the corners of my mouth with a cloth napkin, vowing to only sit like this at cafes which can afford me such finery, as this. A tiny porcelain spoon for sugar. A porcelain saucer with silver scuffs. A cloth on the table which waves in the breeze like a flag or the hem of a jacquard skirt, dancing, flying, waving at the sea. The waiter brings me a little cookie on a silver platter. “For your kafe,” he tells me in Hebrew, and I know that he is fond of me, coming here every day, glasses on, pen like a dagger, pen like a kite. “Todah, monsieur,” I reply, for I know he is a Frenchman, living eight blocks east of the beach in the place that was never more home than this.