A fiction by Kyle Jarrard that previously appeared in Nightsun No. 24
“One last one?” she asks.
He nods, adding that little shrug, the one she warned him about. But she has had her expensive dinner in the City of Light and lets her fairly good mood forgive him. She pats his lower back. He wonders if she will withhold love later. She hopes she won’t blurt out her lack of faith in trans-Atlantic rejuvenation.
An old German shepherd gets up, barks weakly and slowly wags its tail. On the side of its head is a lump the size of a lemon.
“If he bites me … ” she says. “Rick?”
The creature wobbles forward a couple of steps, barks again.
The bartender, stacking coins on the counter, finally takes notice, leans over the copper counter and bellows down, “Couchez, Roger!”
The dog drops into the butts and sugar wrappers.
“Imbécile,” he adds, forcing a smile at the two or four drinks. He puts out his hands as if to catch water, points them toward the empty tables.
Rick guides her to a table and even takes care of her chair, like he’d tried to do in the nice restaurant, though it had only annoyed the waiter who’d taken over with a hiss of disdain for American ignorance.
“Etienne!” the bartender cries.