Maris

By David William Pearce

It was her eyes I noticed first. Big, cobalt blue, and surrounded by a translucent white. The beret was as I expected: red felt covering her head and left ear.

She was sitting at a café, outside, under a red and white checkered awning. A cigarette dangled between her fingers, and a cup of coffee, with barely visible wisps of steam, was very close to her red lips.

She smiled as I approached her.

“You are Georges?” she asked as she set down the cup.

“Yes, I said. “Maurice told me I’d find you here.”

The young woman raised her eyebrows at the name, but did not speak.

“May I?” I motioned towards the empty chair to her right.

After a long drag from the cigarette, she said, “Please.”

“You are Maris, no?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“But…” What little composure I had fell away…