Restaurant: Margaret and the Cannonau

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“We’d like to start with a bottle of wine,” he said happily.

At the restaurant, I couldn’t help but watch how people ordered. Some asked for food as if it was a feast, enjoying the cadence of dishes they were setting up, while others, like this man, ordered stooped slightly over their table and pandering to me as if he didn’t want any trouble. He had a cheap sharkskin jacket whose patterned clashed with the basic, thin patterned shirt. His pants were of the same plastic material as the jacket and were cut to suit – well – any buyer. The restaurant usually didn’t attract this kind of customer, but every night brings a surprise.

Perhaps what did get them inside was his guest, she was beautiful. Thick brown, straight hair the color of rich chocolate. She had tied it back with a simple bone pin, but the decadent waves of mole tumbled and curled in the bun. Her complexion was somewhere far from here, Iranian, I believe, arrogant tight eyebrows that seemed to hate the candles and soft, red lips drawn in a contemptuous frown. Her hands were clasped tightly across her lap. It was apparent they had fought, she didn’t want to be there, or the price that she agreed to was not enough to buy her company and her attention.