Turn With Care

1

For four years, Israel and Yasmin passed each other, morning, lunch and evening. They never saw each other though, because Israel always walked on the outside of the pavement and Yasmin walked on the inside, with a crowd separating them, as was the habit of the city.
Then, one day, outside a small bakery that displayed wedding cakes in the window, a young boy came flying out of the store with a croissant in either hand, the storekeeper in pursuit. Yasmin, having timed her evening walk to such a fine perfection that she was interrupted in her step by the boy, then the storekeeper, stopped and looked across the pavement. Israel, who had timed his evening walk to such a fine perfection that he was interrupted in his step by the boy, then the storekeeper, stopped and looked across the pavement. Crowds stopped momentarily, then moved on, and the boy and the storekeeper disappeared across the other side of the street.
Isreal felt the back of his right arm and goosebumps dimpled under his fingertips and he couldn't help but let a smile betray the private, yet shareable feeling that had decided to warm his chest. On seeing the smile, Yasmin felt goosebumps dimple on the back of her legs, gently caressing the long, light cotton dress that she wore, which caused a smile to betray the private, yet shareable feeling that suddenly decided to warm her chest.
Would you like to have drink? Why yes I would. Where shall we go? Oh, you choose. OK, lets go this way.
And so they went to a small café which Isreal quite often attended, on the corner of Rue X.

2

Etienne stood in the kitchen and handled a head of broccoli. It strived for perfection in his hands, starting off as a thick, substantial mass that gradually refined itself along it's length, getting smaller and smaller, multiplying and diversifying, reaching forwards, spawning, creating, re-creating and finally culminating in a thousand bursts. It looked like a human lung, he thought. Trees too. They had the same form. Did all plant life grow this way? Were plants, in fact, the breathing apparatus of the planet? He remembered a summer day, sitting and watching old men play boules, cigarettes hanging from their mouths, dirty old caps atop of dirty old heads, hair hanging down that had seen a whole life of time and action and silence and solitude and love and sadness and happiness and a million other feelings in between. He looked beyond the men and their game of boules, to the trees that lined the dusty park. It was at that exact moment, the church bells crying out ten o'clock, that it struck him how they looked just like lungs, inverted, and he realised that the world on which he stood, that great rock upon which he balanced delicately, precariously, on the edge of life, just a speck, a dot, that world was a living thing, ageless, continuous and ceaseless in it's hunger for life. They talked about global warming (they that murmured in the shadows) and that the world was dying. Didn't everything die eventually? It was the one universal truth. Just as someone decided on a whim that there should be life, so at one moment in time, there should be death as well.
"Etienne, we have customers."
"Ah, I see."
Two people walked through the door of the cage and Bettina did not make an effort to greet them, this being her one immutable custom, and her right. Instead, and despite having warned Etienne should ready himself, a sign which clearly showed that she did in fact care that they were there, she busied herself folding napkins into thirds, with creases made by her thumb nail to give a crisp and undeniable certainty.
The two people, a male and a female, a black and a white, seated themselves by the window. They did not consider fully their surroundings, being fixated on each other instead, this much was obvious, nor did they greet their patron, who was folding napkins into thirds at the counter. The black turned and called for coffee, an espresso and a... what would you like to drink? Oh, I'll have a Macchiato please. I've never had one of those, I only ever drink espresso. Well why don't you try one? Hmm, yes, I think I will.
"Wait, make that two Macchiatos please and bring some water."
Would you like anything to eat? No, thank you. But you go ahead if you please. Thank you, I must because I am a little hungry.
"Please bring a small bowl of mussels and a half loaf of bread."
They didn't wait for their order to be confirmed and Bettina did not oblige, in any case. She walked to the hatch that engaged the kitchen with the bar, marrying the two in an indefinite union, and passed the order, in words, toEtienne, who caught them in his ear.
"Hmm, they are strange, I think."
"Really, why?"
"Because they seem to care even less about me than I do for them, which is perturbing. Almost disturbing. I feel quite violated in fact."
"How should I do the mussels?"
"Oh, do them well, but don't give them the best bread."
"Right-o."

3

Drunk, he stumbled along the street with her by his side.
"Look at that."
"What?"
"Zis a man chasing that boy."
"Yes. I wonder why?"
"Hees caught im"
"Wow"
"Hees beetin him."
"The boy's got croissants."
"Hees smashin him."
"He's still got the croissants. Isn't letting go."
"Hees bashin im."
"He's not putting up a fight."
"Hees done his nose in."
"It's not a fair fight."
"Boy doesnt care tho."
"He's got him on the ground."
"I wonder what he did?"
"He's still got the croissants."
"Hees kicking his belly."
"He's kickin his nuts."
"Hees slapping his face."
"Still got the croissants."
"Hees curled up in a ball."
"He's kickin im in the bum."
"Must hurt."
"He's pulling his feet."
"Tryin to get his legs out. Hees staying tightin a ball though."
"He's still got the croissants."
"Hees going for the croissants."
"They're being torn apart."
"Hees spit on him."
"Now hes stopped."
"Hees going away."
"Boy's getting up."
"It's over."
"Wonder what that was about."
"Boy's run away."
"It's over."
"One of my patients died today."
"What did he die of?"
"Something fatal."
"Don't you know?"
"He was a new patient."
"Oh I see."
Drunk, Nicolas stumbled along the street, with Mrs Nicolas by his side.

4

The complete and ubiquitous light was merciless in it's dissection of De Crecy's naked body and deprived him of any dignity. He stared blankly and fixedly towards a single spot on the ceiling, which afforded him the only chance to counter the harsh glare of the room, for that one spot had no chance to shrink away, hide or deflect his penetrating gaze. It could neither move away from him, nor come any closer. The steel bed on which he lay was cold and therefore very real. Others, less naked by virtue of a single sheet, hid away in sealed holes, away from the light, still in peaceful and final dreams.
Had he still been able to think, he may have considered what an inconvenience it was to be terminally incapacitated. No words could be said. No sounds could be heard. No means to feel and judge the world around him by sense or intuition.
As it was, De Crecy was dead.

5

The salt and pepper shakers observed the conversation flying about in invisible and intangible streams of data, information, knowledge and wisdom.
Israel was no more able to take his eyes from Yasmin's as she was from his, and so they were interlocked in an informal and silent gaze, one born out of pleasure, the child of intrigue and attraction. Feeling as if he were on a rollercoaster ride, he plunged down through the two windows that rested proportionately well above and to either side of her nose, behind which he found the roots of myriad varieties of beautiful flowers, each giving a seductive and yet delicate aroma that, when collectively combined, became the scent of her soul. As it was, her natural aroma, which despite being a perfume and therefore not of her natural doing, had moved into the realm of her nature by the fact that she wore it exclusively and religiously each day, and was as close a match for the one that Isreal had just identified. She had inherited it from a girl in an underwear shop, who accepted the compliment upon it's pleasantness and perfection very well, divulging the name of the smell and where it could be bought.
Sounds, vowels, consonants, tones, silences, pauses.
Where do you live? What do you do? Where do you go?
We pass each other each day. I've never seen you. Me neither.
It is perfect, then, that we should have met today.
A bowl of mussels placed under Israel's nose. A plate with a half loaf of bread followed. Two Macchiatos to complete. The hostess said nothing, but turned and returned to churn a simple dialogue through the hatch behind the counter, which was inaudible to Israel and Yasmin, had they been listening, which they hadn't.
"How are the mussels?"
"Yes fine, would you like one?"
"Please."
Taking one in his hand, Isreal opened it's shell, parting them delicately to expose the tender flesh. Yasmin passed up the fork's blatant invitation to be utilised and it commiserated with the knife which partnered it atop of a napkin, folded crisply into thirds. She fingered the flesh, placed it atop of her tongue and rolled it around in her mouth, sucking, then chewing, then swallowing.
"I think this is yesterday's bread though."

6

"Would you like me to make you something for dinner?"
"Please. Whatever you like."
The kitchen was clean and tidy. Pots hung from a rack above a central wooden bench, bearing the marks of kitchen use, giving it an aged, utilitarian charm. The floor had been swept and mopped, no small crumbs of bread or onion peel or waste hid behind or under any of the benches, fridges, cooker or other such installation. It was simple and honest.
Etienne took a cutting board from beneath the wooden bench, un-hung a large frying pan, resting it on the gas cook top, into which he flowed an amount olive oil, equal to that which was required. He took his best knife from the block and relocated it on the cutting board. Next, he went to the largest fridge, pulling open the heavy door, allowing a previously contained chill to creep and merge with the warmer, less contained air. The sensation arrived at his hand first and he stopped in his flow, placing that hand against his lips. He felt a kiss.
From the third shelf down, he took a metal tray, covered with clothe (he despised using plastic as it conferred a fine smell and taste upon whatever it covered, that, even though largely undetectable to most, was psychologically present and unwelcome). He closed the fridge, trapping the chill once more, which was of no great concern to the chill, who would have been less itself once removed from the fridge, even less so if then twice removed, flowing away from the fridge and, heaven forbid, becoming the air of thecafé - how vulgar.
The clothe rolled back with an action like a man with an appreciable taste for undressing women, savouring the experience and intensifying the delight of the flesh that he would uncover. The bacon, being that in the tray, had chance to breath and acclimatise to the ambience of the kitchen, which was the preferred state before being introduced to the hot oil of the frying pan.
From the fruit and veg store, he picked only the best ingredients - a ripe, fresh, red tomato, buxom and tender to the touch; an onion of magnificent weight and a fine golden brown colour, begging to be peeled; and a whole clove of garlic, pure white, which would not have been shamed if placed next to a diamond, if appearance and presence were the only qualities being measured. Finally, from the bread basket, he took a half size, white loaf, which he had purposefully baked just after lunch, so that it would be at the peak of it's freshness andemanating that bread smell which all bread strives to both acquire and then retain.
The oil flowed easily in the pan, so Etienne removed three rashers of bacon from the tray, placed them on the chopping board, trimmed the fat with such a fine draw of the knife that no fat remained, yet none of the meat had departed. Carrying each rasher in his left hand, layered atop of each other, he laid them down to rest in the bed of the pan, stroking each in the oil, then turning immediately. The gas flames, blue like constant, licking tongues of energy that transacted with whatever it touched, in return that it was allowed to continue to exist and be conferred a purpose, was creating a heat not too high and not too low.
Back at the board, the onion was invited to be prepared. Rolled on one side, head cut off leaving only one cut line and a flat plane, on to which the onion was stood, being able then to balance itself without assistance. Cut in half, then one half laid flat. The coat removed. Knife drawn across the onion, cutting through to the board, but not all the way across the onion, so that it still effectively remained in one piece. This was repeated along the length fifteen times. Turned through ninety degrees and the same cutting repeated, the onion then ceasing to be a whole, falling into the parts of it's sum. The final piece, left at one edge, was chopped with a rolling motion of the knife, dancing on tip then heel, rhythmically. Etienne heard the music of this method playing a distant symphony and he felt assured of his art.
The bacon was turned in the pan, it having begun to surrender it's moisture, imparting in steam, and permeating in Etienne's nose, bacon's unique personality. The onion was spread around the bacon and the pan was shaken with a vigorous confidence. Or a confident vigour.
Under the weight of the knife and his arm, the garlic was crushed, de-headed and tailed, chopped and spread into a single layer across the board, subsequently joined with the bacon and onion to be melded together. The timing of this was co-ordinated with an innate sense of who and what should go where and when.
The tomato was handled next, a second knife drawn from the block, with a serrated edge. Flesh was torn, sliced and the sliced tomato became a pile of tomato slices, rich in redness and vitality, as is blood, lust, love, passion and anger.
Olive oil drizzled over the bread in such a way that once the absorbent quality of the loaf was spent, an even spread was created not far from saturation.
There was only one plate to be selected from among the many available - the same plate that was always selected - a simple, white china, partly-dished form. The bread laid easily on to the plate, the frying pan removed from the flame and placed on the wooden bench, emptied of it's contents. Bacon first, then the onion and garlic. Cracked pepper, sesame oil and a dash of Worcester sauce, tomato laid on top and then another layer of bread to seal. Using the serrated knife again, the whole affair was drawn into thirds and then slid into the hatch.
The small, brass bell rung, signifying service.