It wouldn’t tie right. No matter how he tried, it wouldn’t do right. The shirt was too big, first off. The collar was too big around for his neck, just like the pants were big, but they might shrink, or he could grow. Better too big, he reasoned when he bought them, than too small. He wished he had something other than the cowboy boots to wear with the pants, but he only had the boots, or his running shoes. The boots were better, he reckoned, and looked similar to the pointy shoes the businessmen wore.

The mirror was not kind. He had set a wet washcloth on top of his head while he worked on the tie, but the tie just wouldn’t do right. It was times like this that he wished he’d had a daddy. A daddy could have shown him how to tie it right, but his daddy was long gone, and it wasn’t likely that he would ever come back.

The washcloth on top of his head was on account of his cow-lick. Sometimes a wet washcloth was enough to hold the cow-lick down... sometimes. He hoped that today would be a “sometime”, so he wore the wet washcloth while he tied the tie, but the tie was a son-of-a-bitch. It just wouldn’t do right, no matter how he twisted it around, nor which direction. Droplets of water fell from the corners of the washcloth, soaking the too-big shirt.

He got the tie done-up the best he could and stepped back to look. His nose was a little wide, his lips pouty below dark brows beetled over soft, kind eyes. Above the brows a wild shock of black hair was being tamed by the wet washcloth. Looking at himself, he wondered what in the world he was thinking, buying new clothes? He was never going to impress anyone. Even with the brand new shirt and tie there was something missing, some unknown secret to dressing well that was beyond him. It was the tie, he thought. It would not tie right. He would never look like those men she seated on the sidewalk, those men who looked so proper, and important in their shirts and spectacles. Maybe some glasses would make him look older, or wiser? Mother had some “readers” in her sewing basket!

He watched her from his park bench of a morning, the blue pigeons pecking at his running shoes and laces while he watched. She worked at the cafe across the way, showing the beautiful people with their fancy clothes to whichever table she might choose for them. She was always the one to choose, and she always knew just the right one for every particular people. Before they sat she would carefully wipe the morning pollen from the tables and chairs with a clean, white, magical towel that never dirtied. She would leave them then, returning with coffees and beignets to their street-side tables. She was most beautiful in her short, white skirt and black shoes. She would leave the coffee and curtsy the table, allowing the beautiful people to sip and nibble while she prepared the next table. He watched her there every day, working at the cafe. He watched her pour the coffee and curtsy as the cars and the bicycles passed between them, going where they would. She poured and she smiled at everyone. That was how he fell in love, watching her. “How nice it would be,“he thought as he watched, “to be sitting at one of those tables on the sidewalk sipping and nibbling, instead of being across the street on a park bench with pigeons pecking your feet? How truly beautiful she must look up close, where you could see the white of her teeth and the pink of her lips when she smiled? His heart raced at the thought, and he knew he must do it, even though it was a different world over there, an entirely different world he would be entering only a street away!

He removed the washcloth, only to have the cow-lick spring back. He combed it as straight as possible and headed out early, when there were few customers. He only had seven dollars, and two of it was change, but he had checked the prices on the board by the gate. Seven dollars would buy coffee and beignets. That was really high, but he suspected that part of the added charge was in having “her” seat you and fuss over you. That must certainly make it worth something!

He stepped up to the gate. His heart beat against his chest so that he was afraid that people could see it. His tongue became thick and dry, like it did not even belong in his own mouth. He saw her. She was coming his way, wearing that same smile he had seen her wear for so many others. His head grew light, so light that he felt feint. She was speaking, but he could not hear for the rush in his ears. “Al fresco?” He didn’t know what she was saying. Everything was happening fast... so very fast.

He felt a hand pressing his bicep, pulling him to his senses. “This way, Honey. Follow me.” She started walking. His legs followed of their own accord, as he did not have the power to make them go. She took him to the center table, along the railing, the very best table. His heart returned to it’s normal rythms. She brought the coffee and danish without his even having asked for it, as if she knew what it was he had come for.

When she was gone he watched the bicycles pass, and the cars, and he felt very proud to have the center table, the best table. He sat very straight so that everyone passing him would see him there, and see that he was important, that he was somebody. He did not want to eat, as he would have to go when it was gone, so he ate slowly, dipping the beignet in the coffee when no one was looking so that the coffee then dribbled down the front of his shirt. Across the way he saw his bench in the park. An old man was seated there, tossing crumbs to the pigeons. The bench looked very close from here, and he realized that “she” had probably seen him sitting there many times. She could hardly have helped it. She might have even guessed that he was watching for her. She looked older up close, but still beautiful, perhaps even more beautiful for the confidence her age afforded her. His heart accelerated once more, so that he cursed it and the shame the erratic thing had nearly brought upon him, and that it might yet bring.

She returned. “Was everything to your satisfaction, sir?”

Unable to find his voice, he dug into his pocket and tossed his money on the table, suddenly afraid that it might not be enough. She carefully picked it up, every penny, and handed it back. “That won’t be necessary. It is on the house.”

He was ashamed. Somehow she knew that he didn’t have the money. “The manager comes in every day at ten o’clock. You may come in one day per week, any day you like, before ten o’clock and I will see that you get coffee and a beignet so long as you are wearing the tie.” She winked at him.

She was treating him like a child. This was unacceptable. He stood. He could almost look her eye to eye, if he stood on his toes. “But it is not the danish that I love, it is you.” He could hardly believe he said it, but it had to be said! He looked at her through wide, but determined eyes. Her smile was gone, her face very serious now.

His heartbeat slowed as it pumped chilled blood. She started to walk away, but then stopped. She looked back over her shoulder, only her head turning to face him, that beautiful face looking back only for him. “I know that, Silly-boy, but shouldn’t we be friends, then?”

And she was gone.

He fell in his sixteenth year, on the 18th green, under a full, reddish-gold moon, a plump moon peeking like a neighbor from behind slippery, black-cloud curtains, a nosy neighbor watching through grimy spectacles with feigned disgusts and lunary lusts.

He fell onto soft, close-cut bentgrass already wet with dew.

He fell against naked and tanned skin chilled with bumps.

He fell into parted lips softer even, sweeter even, than the close-cut bentgrass.

He fell under her youthful must, lured by a callow perfume.

He fell throbbing to her pulse.

He fell a-whirl in his passion.

She fell soon after.