Hello happy Monday I hope,

"Less Than" continued.

Capistrano’s is a bistro that serves simple fare: pot roast and new potatoes, hearty vegetable soups, sandwiches with fresh bread, homemade cakes and pies; nothing too fancy but all cooked with the healthiest, leanest ingredients we could buy. You’ve heard it’s only a good idea to partner up with your best friends if you don’t want to be friends long, but we did it anyway and it’s been successful which is a plus since its my life.
I arrive there usually by 7 to meet with Charles and Janice to discuss the day’s operations, the day's menu and the previous night’s business we had already discussed the night before. I go over the receipts, review the staff and do other managerial duties, enjoying most of them.
It’s not a big place, yet just right, well-lighted with windows all around that bring in the sun. We wanted to make it a ‘clean, well-lighted place’ a la Hemingway and it’s full of warm sun even when it’s gone. It’s inviting, a place to relax and breathe for a while and not just for the clientele. I love its atmosphere, the feel and look of it. Sometimes I'll sit by the window at my favorite table by the coffee bar and watch the room, what people are eating and drinking and if they're enjoying it.
At other times I’ll sit over my black coffee, very still, staring out at the people moving along the street, some with the numbered white fluttering over their heads. The numbers that brilliant black Modern.20: 40, 27, 6, 71, 18, 1 and on and on. It’s not as if I see them all the time—thank Heaven—marking the end. For the most part I’ve learned to live with them or even--on my best days--not really see them, more like catching something from the corner of my eye I refuse to heed. It’s the only way I can live a normal life.
We have regulars; are lucky to have them. There's a group of retirees, four men, all who seemed old enough to have been retired for twenty years or more. They pay for their first cup of coffee and cinnamon scones but get anything extra on the house. They show up at least six days a week and if one is missing; Lila, who works the coffee bar and who knows them by first name, would ask after him and they always appreciated the asking.
There is Wayne and Steve, office workers from Regus who come in for the lunch special; who tell bad jokes to each other and anyone else who'd listen; jokes they think are hilarious.
Do I see the numbered white over any of them? Yes…and no. I saw it materialize over Wayne and two of the retirees but I looked away, willed it away so I never got their numbers and can greet them with a genuine smile untinged with sad hopelessness.
So we have our regulars, most I was used to seeing, even glad to see except for one; I was not just glad to see her but had come to a ‘need’ to see her.
Clare.
When I first saw her, it was Wednesday, the 23rd. She walked in on his arm and I glanced at them because I was counting glasses behind the bar and went immediately back to it. I knew they were new customers, new faces which was fine; I was glad for it and hoped they’d be repeaters, this was my only interest in Clare…at first.
From that day on the two would come in once or twice a week. She always held onto his arm and he would seat her first like a gentleman before taking his. They would sit across from each other, their faces very close with her looking directly at him and no one else; her face so tensely attentive on his it was as if he were her whole world. He looked to be in his late thirties, in good shape, with brown hair swiped with gray; he reminded me of the 4th James Bond, Timothy Dalton. It was she though that drew me of course. I began to really look at her, then openly stare even when I tried not to.
She was New York City attractive: slim, but shapely in the stylish clothes of the city girl. Yet, it was her face of course that captured me. She had long black hair and even, delicate features, the face of a smiling, open, unworldly Midwestern girl used to wide spaces, gentle turns of neighborliness, virginal blankets of snow. A face that knew no unkindness, no darkness, no pain; I grew to be fascinated by that lovely, innocent face.
Since they sat at the same table almost each afternoon, Sherry, the waitress who stationed the area, began to tell me; after they’d departed of course, what they had talked about, argued over, laughed about.
Sherry told me her name.
“I heard him call her, Clare,” Sherry said, “That’s it.”
And it was perfect. Until…

Finishing up--I hope--in the next installment.

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing,

Lori