Cafe at the Marigny - the T

The girl leaned forward over the table, her shirt hiked up exposing the white lace  “T“ of her thong.  The frilliness contrasted dramatically with her clothes that were of cheap quality and mismatched.  He didn’t notice, they were lip locked leaning into each other’s faces across the Pyrex bowl of French fries.  The back of her head shifted anxiously while their lips suctioned an essence no one else at the Marigny perceived.  Separated to breath she giggled, reaching behind her back to pull down her striped t-shirt.

The waiter came, perhaps seeing the breather as the moment to interrupt. 

“What would you like for dessert?”

Neither noticed the waiter and locked their lips again once again exposing the "T."

Cafe at the Marigny - the unpredictable

This morning at the Marigny there is a man harassing all the people sitting at the external tables, he wants to borrow a lighter.  He holds a beer in one hand and wobbles around, he's wearing knee length shorts with a Hawaiian pattern.  The people try to ignore him afraid of some violent jest.  He's obviously drunk and not from around here but from some periphery city of Paris.
His grabs a lighter off the table of two ladies barley touching the face of the blond.  She crunches her nose and everyone looks at him from the corner of their eyes.  He dances to some rhythm we can't hear, the noise from the traffic is deafening.  Everyone is back from Easter vacation.
The unpredictable drunk dances off to corner and without hesitation dances into the traffic.  Now the Parisians openly turn around to stare at the guy. Buses slow down and honk, an ambulance drives slowly by, cars honk.  It's chaos.  The guy dances in the middle of the busy intersection. Untouched he gains the other side and disappears in the crowd.

cafe at the Marigny - café, une boisson phsycoative

This morning at the Marigny the dust on the tables is quick to alight.  We need rain says the lady at the market.  she is probably correct but this sun is so delectable. The waiter that looks like an owl serves me.  He is gruff.

"En petit crème."  It used to be called café au lait.  Now only tourists say that.

I look on wikipedia for the definition of café and am thrilled by the description.   It is a une boisson psychoactive.   


The waiter takes forever, his bottle-bottom glasses enlarge his eyes on his face and his hair is uncontrollable.  It is hard to say what color it is.  It isn't blond but something like that.  It looks like a dolls hair that has been drug through the sand pit.  It sticks out.  He is skinny and his face has huge dimples.  Big sideburns that are not brune but darker than his hair.


Finally my coffee arrives.  

Cafe at the Marigny - Parisian memoirs

The Marigny is the cafe on the corner.  It is a brasserie and a tabac.  It could be most anywhere in Paris or France for that matter.

This morning I sit at the Marigny with my husband enjoying a cafe in this incredible April sun that has almost lasted a month without a drop of rain.  There are two guys taking down the glass walls of the terasse because it is officially summer.  One guy, the white one, is wirery, small, all nerves.  The other guy is a big happy black dude; they look like chess mates on the board.

They are bumbling around, not quite sure how to remove the thick glass panels and keep bumping into the lady drinking Bloody Mary's. It must be 8 AM.  She's smoking, we're all smoking.

The traffic light turns red and some guy stops on his scooter, he's yelling in some incomprehensible language, he's real pissed.  We think he's got turret then realize he has a head set for a cell phone.

The chessmates bump into the drunk lady that pours tabasco into her drink and put the chairs on top of the table, feet first.  The patron comes out, he doesn't like that.  Cars start honking because the light turned green and the guy on the scooter is gesticulating widly, his feet glued to the tarmac.  He drives off, more cars honk at something else.

A lady walks by crying and stomping her feet, she too is having some phone conversation.  I think the Parisians have gotten too much sun.

Time to get the studio and start painting.