Naomi and Steve sat in the back left corner of Cafe Regio
world’s most perfect afternoon cafe, or one of them. They were
young enough. It was a mid April afternoon. Each had
a good book just in case. Murder was not in the air.
Maybe they’d have a good time, and maybe not.
Neither one wanted a commitment, or anything with
the idea of forever. Maybe what they wanted was the
kind of fleeting love that is onlypossible in the afternoon
when you’re young, and look good enough, when
your only real obligation is to a classroom, or a not very
important job. Naomi was studying if that was the right
word studying was the word she often used Naomi was
studying literature and she worked every single afternoon
for the head of the Department of Religion, a serious
Protestant Minister named Harold Yeydi who mostly wanted
her just to sit at a desk in case someone called or came in.
Neither happened much. Steve was in a comparable position
in the world. He was writing plays, big plays about assassins
and their motivations, plays about subjects he was happy to discuss.
He liked his mother. He didn’t like his father much.
That’s more or less what happened, on day one. As they
got up to leave, after a while, Naomi said: Will we see one
another again. Of course said Steve.
I am beginning to like Steve. Unless I learn otherwise, Esther please do let his death be a violent one.