Entry in last years's Hunter Writer's Short Story Competition. The Criteria was to base a short story based on the Van Gogh's The Cafe Terrace reproduced on the left....
It was a stunning Spring evening. The recent rains had
cleansed the sky, leaving the stars shining like polished diamonds. The cobbled
laneway in the old part of the port city was brightly lit, the street lights
tinted a warm yellow. The first members of the dinner crowd were wandering from
café to restaurant to café, examining the offerings in each establishment’s
window.
He had booked ahead. A table for two out in the laneway
fronting the cosy restaurant. The laneway was cordoned off at each end.
Pedestrians only. They had left their hotel room and strolled the promenade as
the sun disappeared over the western bank of the river, disappearing into the
distant valley carved by the meandering waterway eons ago.
The chilled local Chardonnay was covered in condensation
from the ice bucket. He presented it as an offering to her, 'Another glass?'
'Yes please. What a way to finish a fantastic day.' She
sighed.
They returned to studying their menus. 'One thing I love
about this place is the way they let you take your time. So many places worry
about the number of times they can turn a table over in an in a night.'
'Well. It is mid-week and outside the holiday season.'
'The advantage of being a contrarian.' He countered.
'Darling, wearing odd socks doesn’t make you a contrarian.'
'My socks aren’t odd.'
'They’re from different pairs. And if it wasn’t planned that
would make you an accidental contrarian.'
He had to think about it, 'Hang on, being a contrarian
requires commitment, planning and premeditation, you can’t do it accidentally.' He Paused, 'OK, so, can I be mildly eccentric then?'
Her eyes rolled upwards, appearing to be searching for
something hanging from her eyebrows. 'This a local wine?' She asked as she
extracted the bottle from the ice bucket.
Reading the label, she took another sip of her glass. 'Yes, from just up the
road, where we were this morning.' She answered her own question.
They sipped their wine in companionable silence. They had
been together long enough, were comfortable enough with each other, that they no
longer felt the need to fill every silence.
He finished his wine, she finished hers, he poured them both
another glass. They resumed studying the menu. The waiter approached the table, 'Would you like to order?' He asked.
'The Special looks good I’ll have one of those.' She
answered.
'I’ll have the same.'
'You left your glasses back at the Hotel, didn’t you?' She
laughed.
He retorted. 'You
know many of the great artists had poor eyesight.'
'Yes, it was one of the corner stones of the Impressionist
movement.'
He looked through the side of his empty wine glass. 'You
know,' He pondered, 'This lane reminds me of one of Van Gogh’s paintings, can’t
remember what it was called.'
'Yeah, Van Gogh’s “Newcastle Café Scene”, painted that time
he dropped in to catch the Supercars and carve up some knarly right handers off
Nobbys’ Beach.”
