Plouf via Papa

I went to Plouf last night for dinner. The hostess was kind, but firm. She wouldn't let us sit until the rest of our party arrived. She reminded us of the cigarette girls at the old movie houses, staying just out of reach, but accessible.
The last of our party arrived late.
"Traffic."
"Of course." I said. "Sit down, have an Orangina, or, if you'd prefer, wine."
"Thanks."

My Orangina was smooth and soothing. Like the sunset, but with more liquid. It calmed my nerves. My nerves needed calming lately, with the layoff looming. My friends didn't care.

"So, how's things?" said one.
"Don't ask."

It went on like this for hours. Eventually we ordered some food.
"Moules, pomme frites and another Orangina." It was the same thing I had last time I was here. Or that's what I imagined I would have had, had I been here before.
This was my first time.

We talked of the good times. The past was mostly good, but then we were reminded of how much we hated it, at the time. The Orangina was mucking up my old memories.
Was I happy in the past? Was anyone? Did it matter, or were we just trying to hold on?

"So, more food, another Orangina?" The waiter interrupted us. His questions brought us back to our world. The alley in San Francisco. The string of similar restaurants, side-by-side, fighting for position. Fighting for life.

The night was getting cold. The Orangina was churning in my stomach. It brought me back to the bullring, when Eduardo was gorged by the stray bull. Stray bulls still haunt me, like my friends.

We paid our tab and said goodnight. The night still had that crisp bite to it. I was tired and longed for my bed.