My story is one of little adventure, little action, little movement - actually, no movement. I am a tabletop, and nothing else. Une table. Una mesa. Un tavolo. Ein Tisch. I go by thousands of different names, yet I am not any of them. I am only myself. I just exist. Not as a table, or any word assigned to describe me. Just as… me. 

This specific tale follows a couple that used to sit with me every morning from 9:30 to 10:00 am. They were quiet, cautious people; perfectly suited for one another. I witnessed each and every one of their simple morning conversations, listened to their opinions on every book they read and every movie they watched, and memorized the orders that they requested for each day of the week. Pain au chocolat on Monday, croissants with jam on Tuesday, yogurt with honey on Wednesday, buttered baguettes and orange juice on Thursday, and chocolate croissants on Friday- a cup of café au lait accompanying each meal. I grew rather fond of their little routines and seeing them so often.

I even gave my calm companions names of their own- Pixie and Curls. This sparked from what they were talking about during one of their first visits to the café at which I reside. One member of the pair mentioned that he liked his partner’s new hairstyle. 

He said, “Pixie cuts suit you, darling. They make you appear as youthful as you are on the inside.” And so, I assigned the name Pixie to his partner. 

She replied that “your messy curls signal to everyone else how disorganized your life is.” Then she reached over and ruffled her hand in his hair. “But still, I love it. And you.” From then on, his name was Curls.

Years passed after that initial meeting. Pixie and Curls grew closer every day, up to the point where they could finish each other’s sentences. I assumed they had come to know each other so well that the inner workings of their minds were practically identical. I watched as Curls kneeled down and offered Pixie a lovely silver ring, and with tears streaming down her rosy cheeks, she accepted it. I saw Pixie bring little gifts occasionally, just to surprise her love and see his gleeful, crooked smile. They were the epitome of a perfect love story in my (although nonexistent) eyes. 

But one morning, soon after the weather started to turn colder, my friends didn’t show up at the café. I waited as the sun traveled further and further across the sky until I realized they weren’t coming to see me that day. They were just too busy today, I thought. They’ll show up tomorrow and everything will be nice again. 

The next morning arrived and I waited excitedly to see my dear Pixie and Curls, but once again, they didn’t come to the café. The sun disappeared beyond the horizon, then rose again, fell, rose, fell…

I was in distress for several days. Were my friends in danger? Had they gotten hurt somehow? Did they move away? I found that unlikely- both of them had expressed strongly multiple times how much they loved living in Paris. Eventually, I got used to the idea that my beloved companions would not be returning to visit me. Other customers sat in my chairs, ate their food, and enjoyed the pleasant Parisian atmosphere I helped provide for them. I developed attachments to certain customers, of course, but none of them could replace Pixie and Curls. 

The owner of the café came outside one day to update the two-sided chalkboard that stands propped up on the sidewalk next to the café. She changed the date so that it said “8 mars/March 8.” The sky was a light, hazy grey and entirely covered in clouds. I was not hopeful of Pixie and Curls’s return, as I had felt some other days. Only the warm, sunny days give me the feeling that they might come back to me that morning, which pairs well with the couple’s shared love of that sort of weather. That is precisely why I was not expecting Pixie to come running up to the café and dramatically flopping down onto the chair that she used to sit on every day. 

Pixie caught her breath and scanned the street as if looking for someone to come and join her. Would Curls arrive soon too? I couldn’t believe what was happening, and more than anything, I wished I could stand up and give Pixie a big hug. She looked like she needed it, and I certainly did. 

After a few minutes of silence, Pixie’s face lit up as someone I didn’t recognize approached the café’s patio. The man sat down across from Pixie - in Curls’s seat - and leaned over the table to kiss Pixie on the cheek. If I could talk in the first place, I would have been rendered speechless by his audacity! What was going on?! Where was Curls?

Pixie and the man started talking about something ridiculous, nothing like Pixie and Curls’s old conversations. I deduced that he was the son of a wealthy businessman, and he acted just as spoiled as one would expect. I was fuming. Who gave him the right to stroll on into Pixie’s life with his boring blond fauxhawk and unfunny jokes about exploiting employees? And why on Earth was Pixie putting up with him? 

They left the café around 10:30 am, walking in different directions. I couldn’t bear to think that Pixie could be walking home to Curls, lying to him about where she’d been and who she was with. He didn’t deserve to be treated that way. Of course, Pixie deserved to be with someone better than Blondie(specifically Curls, her actual husband). I wondered what had happened to their relationship that had caused Pixie to secretly meet with someone else.

I then came upon the realization that possibly Pixie and Curls were not together anymore… but no, that couldn’t be possible! They were made for each other, they could never separate. Besides, I had noticed that Pixie was still wearing the ring Curls gave her so long ago, right in front of me. But at the same time, I never expected that either of them could cheat on the other. 

Every day for the following week, Pixie and Blondie met at the café and sat in my chairs, eating pain aux raisins, which I knew was Pixie’s least favorite pastry. Curls had loved pain aux raisins, but he never ordered it because he knew Pixie liked eating the same breakfast as him every day and he didn’t want to make her eat something she hated. Obviously, Blondie didn’t care about Pixie’s preferences.

On March 15, Pixie and Blondie were eating their pastries when a familiar face passed the café, then turned around and walked back. Oh, dear… as excited as I was to see Curls, I could not stand seeing his heartbroken expression and he watched Pixie reach out and ruffle Blondie’s hair.

“Mon cherie? Is… is that you, Aurelie?” Curls’s voice cracked. I could tell he felt the same way I did when I discovered Pixie and Blondie’s current arrangement, if not even more crestfallen than I had been. 

Pixie opened her mouth but no words came out. Blondie looked back and forth between Pixie and Curls, looking both nervous and confused. “Is this your… brother, Aurelie? Or your friend? Why haven’t you introduced us?”

Blondie stood up and walked over to Curls, holding his hand out and saying how nice it was to meet him. Meanwhile, Pixie sat with her face in her hands. After a few moments, she joined the two men and attempted to explain what was going on. The sky darkened, and Curls’s expression did too. His eyes watered as a handful of raindrops fell from the clouds. Eventually, Curls turned and walked away briskly. Pixie glanced at Blondie before running after Curls, yelling something I couldn’t pick up. 

Curls kept walking. He didn’t even turn around.

Pixie came back to the patio to see that Blondie was gathering his things and leaving. He opened his umbrella to shield himself from the rain, looked back at Pixie one more time, and walked away. She watched as the man she ruined her marriage to be with left her behind completely, then collapsed onto the soaking cobblestones and sobbed in the rain. I could feel her pain, and I wished that I could comfort her, but I knew that it was her decisions that caused this. It was no one’s fault but hers that she was now alone. 

It has been a very long time since all of this happened, yet I still think about it almost every day. So many couples have visited the café, which is now run by the original owner’s daughter, and all I want to tell them is not to take their love for granted. Paris may be the city of love, but it is often the city of heartbreak as well.