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JoMazelis
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the coffee, drawing it
into her mouth greedily.
Amanda stole a glance at
the flowers and saw with
disappointment that these
were the dull-coloured
woollen ones.
Monsieur Arbot did not
open his change drawer,
did not scoop up a dirty
handful of coppers, did
not tenderly place the
new flowers in the window
display. Instead he retied
the package and shook his
head slowly.
The woman was so
engrossed in drinking
the coffee that she didn’t
at first notice what was
happening, but when
the
rejected
flowers
were pushed back to her
side of the counter, she
quickly grew alarmed and
began to speak rapidly
in a language Amanda
did
not
understand.
Perhaps Monsieur Arbot
understood, but whether
or not he did, he was
unmoved, his head a
metronome,
slowly
turning from side to side.
The woman jabbered;
her voice, which was
husky and strained, grew
shrill. She put her hands
together palm to palm,
praying and pleading, her
eyes ever wider, her brow
a knot of anguish. He tried
to ignore the woman,
then angrily, desperate
to break the spell of her
noise, he banged the heel
of his fist on the centre of
the wooden worktop, and
shouted,
‘Non!’
Both the woman and
Amanda jumped at the
sudden noise, but it had
done its work. The woman
bit her lip and picked up
the loose package. Then
just as she turned to go