Excerpt: The Anthemion

Crisp leaves dance in the breeze around me. They circle around my ankles and up my calves before blowing away. My hair turns in their general direction, as if wanting to follow them. Yet my gaze remains fixed forward, my eyes concentrating on the hunter green canopy that marks the entrance to Le Pétit Bistro. The crosswalk light changes, and I let the crowd push me forward and across the street. I step onto the sidewalk rapidly, moving aside so people can walk past me, and pull my bag closer to me. I sneak a quick glance to my watch, close my eyes, and force myself to take a step forward. Then another, and another, and I find myself holding on to the door handle far tighter than I should. I unclench my hand, dropping it to my side. Breathe. I raise my hand again, squeeze the door handle, and pull the door open.

I step into the bistro quickly, letting the door close behind me as I blink to adjust to the dim lighting. The hostess approaches me slowly, too slowly, and wonders whether I’m meeting someone or I’m here alone. “Someone,” I mutter, pushing past her. She frowns at me but I keep walking, craning my head around as I look for her. I keep walking towards, my footsteps quiet on the moss of the carpet. My eyes have begun adjusting to the light level now, and I can begin to distinguish the flowery pattern of the tablecloths and the dull shine of the cutlery. It is precisely a sparkle of light off a knife that alerts me to her location in the corner booth on the far right. I walk towards her, my pace quickening the closer I get, only to stop abruptly in front of the table.

My shadow falls over the table rather ominously, and she tenses, slowly raising her head. Her gaze remains locked on her sketchbook for a couple more instants, a piece of charcoal still dangling idly between the thumb and index fingers of her left hand. Then, a flash of green peeks at me through her black eyelashes, and for one long, painful moment Artan is staring at me through his daughter’s eyes. But then she frowns, her body tensing as she shifts to put more distance between us, and the similarity fades. Artan never looked at me like this.

She slowly and deliberately sweeps her eyes from me towards the seat across from her, and I take the hint, sitting down. The shiny vinyl of the seat is immediately uncomfortable, yet I remain sitting straight and pretend it isn’t bothering me. She smiles slightly, looking about as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa, and looks back down. It is then that my eyes fall on the sketchbook, tracing the upside-down shape of a tall, handsome man with a set of stunning, feathery wings protruding from his shoulders. An angel. I really didn’t peg her for a believer in those things. I watch as she carefully smudges the strokes around his head, turning them into more natural-looking hair, and then closes the sketchbook abruptly.