Screaming in a French Bistro is a Faux Pas
by Phyllis Rittner
Let me cheer you up, he said as the maitre de led us to a private table. We were two platonic friends who frequently dined after my boyfriend John and I quarreled. And although I never fell for his pale blue eyes I felt indebted to the kindness behind them.
My treat, he offered, ordering for both of us from the prix fixe menu. I only wanted soup but nodded, twisting my linen napkin as he chatted about his castle visit in Burgundy.
My heart thumped backwards during the seven-course presentation, my brain spiraling with obsessive thoughts of my unworthiness. Each tiny portion, a mini-painters’ palette, mocked me. I longed to scream, hurl plate after plate over my head, watch the balsamic-glazed scallops spatter and slide down the mirrored wall. Instead I wrapped my hands around a goblet of blood red Bordeaux, praying the room would blur into a swirly haze, seducing me into oblivion.
I chose to tempt him with my smile rather than soil his designer shirt with my tears. He respected me enough not to reveal his heart, knowing that night I would return to John - the man who knew nothing of castles or pasta machines or worldly books. John bet on lottery tickets, cheated in Irish bars, raged during hockey games. But I loved those hockey games, not for the sport but for the freedom to howl, the cacophony of John’s screams merging with my own.
Phyllis Rittner writes poetry, flash fiction and creative non-fiction. Her work can be found in the Journal of Expressive Writing, Burnt Breakfast, Roi Faineant Press, Paper Dragon, Versification, Sparks of Calliope and is forthcoming in Gyroscope Review. She is the winner of the Grub Street Free Press Fiction Contest and a member of The Charles River Writing Collective.