The Flower Bowl Spell by Olivia Boler

a table of three couples,
chatting them up. We continue to look at each other as he smiles
and winks. I smile into my glass and look away. When I look again,
he’s gone from the room.
    “—at the aquarium?” Cooper is saying.
    “I’m sorry? What?”
    “Did you see the alligators at the
aquarium?”
    “Oh. Yeah. They were asleep.”
    He nods. “Speaking of, how early do you have
to leave tomorrow?”
    “Pretty early. I guess the show doesn’t start
until eight, but it’s what, a five-hour drive? And I want to talk
to Yeah Right before the concert.”
    “Yeah who?”
    I try to explain the relationship between
Arsenic Playground and Yeah Right. Cooper nods along, but his eyes
are glazing. He has no interest in music, not even classical. Not
even French music. I think he’s the only person I know who doesn’t
have some sort of CD or LP collection, just whatever his daughter
leaves around the flat. At first I thought it might be a
deal-breaker, but I find that I always get to pick what we listen
to in the car or at home, which makes me feel like a queen.
    Someone is placing steaming dishes of food in
front of us. I’m enveloped for a moment in heat so strong I’m
afraid the skin on my face will burn. My eyes water slightly from
the garlic and vinegar that make up the compote of my roasted game
hen. I look up to thank Meg Ryan, but it’s the host. He smiles at
us, as equally dazzling to Cooper as to me.
    The soft pendulum light above us turns the
pale hairs on his arm a white gold as he clasps his hands. “Is
there anything else I can get you?”
    “ Non, c’est super, le canard ,” Cooper
says, and the host purses his lips in Gallic delight. They
rat-a-tat-tat in French for a while, too quick for me to
understand, although I catch something on the regions of France and
Cooper’s Toronto upbringing. By the time they’re done, my food has
cooled sufficiently, and the host touches the backs of each of our
chairs in turn as he wishes us bon appetit before hustling
off to greet some just-arrived customers.
    Cooper picks up his fork and knife and starts
sawing away at his meat. “That’s Remy.”
    “Remy as in Chez Remy?”
    “Um hum.”
    “So he owns the place.”
    “Along with his family.” Cooper points
discreetly with his fork at our waitress and towards the kitchen.
“His sister, cousins, and friends.”
    I study Meg Ryan, trying to see a
resemblance. The blondness, I suppose, and the skinniness.
    “Tell me more about this trip,” Cooper says.
“How long will you be gone?”
    “Three nights, I think.” I take a bite of
hen. Divine.
    “And the girls?”
    “What about them?”
    He gives a little laugh. “Where to
begin?”
    I wait for him to do just that.
    “Their mother abandoned them—”
    “Not true,” I interrupt. “She’s coming back.”
I decide then and there that I need to read the tarot cards when I
get home. I need to be able to back up my statements, which are
unanchored buoys at the moment.
    “Well, where is their father?”
    “I don’t know.” I put down my utensils. “He
might be the reason Viveka left home. I haven’t been able to figure
it out. Yet.”
    “I see.”
    “Good, because I don’t.” I laugh
halfheartedly.
    “I hope,” he says, touching his mostly
untouched champagne flute, “that you know what you’re doing.”
    You and me both, dude , I want to say,
but I just sigh.
    Our waitress sweeps in with a water jug. We
both sit back from the table to give her room. I’m feeling pissy
and I’ve lost my appetite. Cooper has finished his food.
    “I’m done,” I blurt. The waitress, taking it
in stride, signals to a busboy to clear our plates. We sit in
silence as our table is de-crumbed and small dessert menus are
placed in front of us. There’s nothing more I want to eat, but this
is a celebration. We agree to split an apple tart and order
coffees.
    Cooper pulls out a small box from his blazer
pocket and hands it to me.
    “Just a little something,”