Je Vois La Vien En Rose
It was June, on the French side of St. Maarten, our table
on the second-floor terrace overlooking the quiet street
below, across from the nearly empty beach. The sun had
spread across the horizon as we sipped our wine; and the
restaurant belonged to us, the season over months ago.
I don’t remember how we ended up in this small
restaurant on a nondescript corner street on an island
with a split personality. We were indifferent tourists who
didn’t care when a sudden wayward afternoon shower
jolted the heat of the equatorial sun.
The twilight arrived before our first dish, as we listened
to the hysterical sound of the birds hiding in the nearby
trees, both of us laughing at their crazed noise; the bottle
of red wine helping. An eloquent moment captured like a
still life painting in the colors of our shared memories.
We were in Paris again. Dinner in the student quarter in the
shadow of Notre Dame, except we didn’t have to speak
French in Je Vois La Vien en Rose. That June week we shared
on St. Maarten, when the days were never long enough
and the nights far too short.
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