The Pure Life of Dreams

I’m searching up where the hospital is, while sitting in a café.

A French woman is with me. We’ve been there for some time, talking. The iron lacework tables and chairs are painted white, like the walls of the café, which is bright and sun filled.

The woman sits at the table as I type out the name of his hospital. She has a sick parent there too and I know it is my chance to chat her up but it has been a long while since I did anything like that.

Her hair is short cropped and black, and I think she would be OK with me flirting but still I’m hesitant. Yes, even though she is cute I feign being unbothered about chatting her up.

We sit there for a long time.

There are three senior citizen hospitals in the Île de la Cité, I tell the woman. I speak about my Dad in the ward, about its white walls with its large windows like a hospital for the insane, though I don’t mention the last part.

She gets up to leave.

I know she’s going because I haven’t attempted to flirt with her but I’m adamant that it was easier to not flirt; despite losing out; despite the fact that we had common interests, what with both of us having a parent in the loony bin.

After she’s gone Mum and my sister come in to the café. The table’s a mess, with my computer and phone and iPad spread across it. Under the table is my two tone leather briefcase with the square handles.

Mum and. Elaine pull back two of the iron clad chairs and sit with me. They’ve just arrived so only I know how to get to the hospital where Dad is, I tell them.

Then we set off, my computer folded under my arm, out of the café and onto a cobbled street.

Mum heads off down the hill. She only does that because she has difficulty walking uphill.

No it’s not that way, I call out to her.

Downhill is easier, she says.

It’s up the hill. Sorry, I repeat, then we have to take the second exit of the roundabout.

I want to walk but because of her we’ll have to take the bus. And once we get to the bus stop we’ll have to figure out the ticketing system.

But we don’t have to wait long – the tram comes quickly and we get on.

We need centimes, I tell Mum, as she fiddles in her purse.

She pulls out a pile of coins but they are mostly quarters, and a few pennies.

Who has coins these days? I complain.

Then I realize that I am only carrying my computer. I left my other stuff behind!

Before the tram sets off I get out.

Go on ahead without me, I tell them, and I hurry back down the hill to the café.

I walk back in and the manager, who stands at a lectern by the entrance, her body facing away from the door, nods at the table I was sitting at.

I hurry over to the table.

My briefcase is still there, as well as my tablet and my coat. It is all there.

I also see my black iPhone, next to my notebooks. I didn’t realize I’d forgotten those, but anyway I’m relieved.

There is the familiar smell of Sunday morning bacon as, from the bright light of the walls, I stir from my sleep.

Photo by David Iliff via WikiMedia Commons.