Sean M. Murphy

Seasons of Love, I’m Sure

The only diners in the little Italian restaurant on the rue Saint-Sulpice were three people and a pug. The restaurant was warm with shining wood paneling, golden lighting, and tables spaced too close together. A lone American reading a book at a small table along the window, and an intimate young French couple. The pug was with them. The door opened and two men entered, bringing in the cold. Dale, a tall, loud American, made his way to the first available two-person table by the door. The other man, Italian and a bit younger, with black hair and a black leather jacket, settled in opposite of Dale, who turned in his seat so that he could see the maître d’. Dale tugged his collar and waved both hands around his shoulders. The maître d’ did not respond.

“Are you cold? I’m cold. It’s cold in here, isn’t it?” said Dale.

“Yes, I also am cold.”

“So anyway, as I was saying before, the wedding and reception are very low-key.” Dale shrugged out of his blue North Face coat. “Now, at the reception, they are going to enter the room as a married couple to ‘Seasons of Love.’ Isn’t that great?”

“Yes, that sounds good, I think,” replied the other man with an easy smile.

Dale was excited by this detail of the wedding, which he had helped plan, and it was meant to be his big hook—a godsend of a conversation piece. It was an excellent way for the two men to connect and give the conversation momentum, and surely once they connected the conversation would carry itself. Yet, the beautiful Italian with his lead-melting smile hadn’t reacted at all. The waiter placed menus on the table.

“You know, like, ‘Seasons of Love?’ You know the song, right? From Rent?”

“No, I don’t think I have heard this one.”  

“It’s one of the songs from Rent. It’s very famous; I’m sure you know it. ‘Seasons of Love,’ I’m sure.” 

“I am sure, but I don't know.”

“Well, if you look it up on the Internet, I’m sure you’ll recognize it then.” 

“Yes, sure.”

The wedding’s Rent theme was amazing because Rent is amazing, but his date wasn’t acting amazed. His smile didn’t waver but neither did he react at all.

Flustered, he continued, “You’ve seen Rent, right?” 

“No. I know this one, but I have not seen it,” said his date as he sipped at his water. 

Dale tried not to look stunned. Rent is so important to him! No, they have it over here too, obviously. 

The waiter returned and took their order.

“Are you still cold? I’m still cold.” Dale looked around, twisting this way and that in his seat.

“No, I am not cold. Maybe we can switch?”

“Good idea,” replied Dale. The two picked up their wine glasses and squeezed past each other between the tight tables. 

“Yes, that’s better,” said Dale as he settled in, and his date switched their water glasses. “Yes, better. So, you haven’t seen it?” 

“No,” replied his date, “but I know this movie. I have not seen it yet. Maybe I will.”

“Oh, you should. It’s actually a play, a musical, but there’s a movie too.” Dale then digressed into comments on the décor and the weather.

After a thousand years, the waiter finally arrived with the food. The meal gave him a break from conversation and quiet fell over the restaurant. Only to the pug was this disagreeable and it protested with a yip. 

After eating a bit, Dale moved on from Rent. “So, as I was saying, the reception is very low-key. The food will be great. I helped plan the buffet. Nothing rich or complicated. Nice, easy stuff like potato salad.” His date responded by nodding his head while he ate, his demeanor unchanged.

The woman of the pug couple was crying while the man tried to stop the flow by holding her hands, but the tears came anyway. The waiter walked his beat making clockwork bread drops while the maître d’ followed with wine. The pug yipped again.

The waiter cleared the meal as Dale pressed on. “The reception is going to be so much fun. We’ve planned it so that it won’t just be a drunk fest, you know? Next door, outside, we’re going to have fun stuff to do, like Skee-Ball. Do you know Skee-Ball?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“It’s where you have this target with rings and a bull’s eye, and you try and toss a ball into it. Well, roll it really, but up into the air like a ski jump. That’s why it’s called Skee-Ball. Anyway, we want to be certain everyone can have fun, with or without drinks.”

The maître d’ started toward the table from across the restaurant, holding two crossed wineglasses aloft in one hand. Dale smiled and waved in response. “Oh, I think he’s offering us complimentary wine. Oh, us? Sure, I guess. Do you want a glass? Yeah, sure. Will do? That’s nice of him.” With a bemused face, the maître d’ returned the glasses to the tray from where he had taken them. 

The waiter arrived and took their dessert order, tiramisu, a house special which sent Dale into a sidebar on desserts that he loves, tiramisu most of all. 

“Weren’t we supposed to get some wine? Didn’t the maître d’ come over with two glasses? Didn’t he offer us two glasses? I thought he did. That’s odd.”

The restaurant fell quiet again. Dale felt jinxed by the maître d’. He’d stumbled and could gauge nothing about how he was doing from the smiling Sphinx sitting across the table. The tiramisu arrived.

As his date finished his dessert, he said to Dale, “Tell me your job again, what you do? You said the company name, but I do not remember.”

Dale perked up, wondering where this came from. His job was so boring, he couldn’t understand why the other man had asked, but he grabbed the question like a lifeline.

“Honeywell. I’ve worked for them for a few years. It’s OK. Quite boring, really. It keeps me in Paris though, doesn’t it?” Dale laughed.

“Yes, that’s good, of course,” replied his date, who smiled, but didn’t laugh. 

“But your job sounds so exciting! Fashion industry! You must love it. ‘Corporate buyer.’ What does that mean exactly?”

“I search the materials. Order the right kind and numbers for making the clothes, the bags, and these things.” He just stopped and smiled at Dale.

Dale knew very well what a corporate buyer did. He was trying to demonstrate an interest in the man, but come on, you can’t just stop like that! Nothing about the date was going right, and Dale felt too deflated to try to rescue what was left of it. It was probably time to wrap it up anyway. He’d forgo a digestif or coffee. 

“The dessert was nice. Time for the check I suppose.”

“Yes, sure.”

Dale did the thumb-index finger wave for the check. When the bill was settled, the men got up and put on their coats.

“Well, that was nice,” said Dale, not knowing what else to say. It would be a long, cold walk home. 

“Yes, it was nice. I like this place. This was a good time. We should do again, I think.”

Dale stopped mid-motion as he was reaching for the door handle. “Oh, yes, of course. I had a wonderful time.” Reinvigorated in an instant, Dale came back to life and opened the door for his date.

“Merci d’avoir!” announced the Italian to the restaurant as they exited, the maître d’ responding in kind. 

“Wasn’t the restaurant nice?” Dale could be heard to say as the door closed behind them.

About the Author

Sean M. Murphy is a fiction writer and career US Army veteran from New York City.