Café Panis, February

They do a good business at the Café Panis, even the tourists can tell. Like a lesson in geometry, perfect circles of dark and polished wood populate the area near the bar, while perfect squares line the walls and long bench seats, all of them crowded with leaning, lounging people. The ceiling is recessed with a wide ellipse that has been covered with decorative ivy in bas relief. On this bitter day in mid-February, we have all come just to be near each other, to sit amid the incessant murmur of strangers -- families, friends, cluster of spontaneous acquaintance -- as they embark on explanations, grope to conclusions, listen, laugh and strive not to lose their train of thought. Near the bank of windows two middle-aged women whose hair is equally blond, roots equally dark, make-up equally heavy, eat lunch without taking their coats off, exclaiming over the quantity of the lettuce and the temperature of the soup, which is very hot. One calls the waiter sweetie, and I like her for that.

 I am studying Latin with a 6th grade primer to write better sentences. Desperation, it appears, has its morbid roots in hope. Desiderium, the glossary defines as both desire and regret -- a single feeling aimed toward either the future or the past. Whitney Houston was found dead in a hotel room yesterday -- the Beverly Hills Hilton. She was 48. I had not thought about her or her drug problem in years. The herbal tea exhausted, a waitress asks if I can move to a table toward the back, to make way for another party. I do, and everyone's glad about it. Another thanks me in passing, without so much as turning her head, as she swaggers officiously toward the cash register. It's a busy day at Panis. hardly a table unoccupied, and a party of six has just piled in through the glass doors and velvet curtains, their eyes bright with relief. Like us they came for refuge from the solid chill outside that is freezing chins and cheeks and convincing passersby of the merits and wisdom of wearing longjohns.
 There is a man on the sidewalk who did not come in. He stands in the light of the windows, his breath pouring into the cold air and breaking into tendrils that vanish quickly in the evening dark.