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Show "I won't forget," said Darcy. Outside the taxi's horn sounded. "We'd better go," said David. Bending forward, Lefteris kissed the girl on the cheek and the forehead, then abruptly turned back to his smoking oven. The huge taxi was nearly full. Next to the driver in the front sat a heavy middle-aged couple, a young boy wedged between them. Their patient silence said they were Greek. In the back sat six well-dressed young men, laughing and talking loudly in German. David and Darcy took the only remaining places, facing each other next to the door. Over the small enforced distance he could feel the heat of her eyes. The driver lit a cigarette. Stop it. Don't stare at me like that. I didn't plan this, it wasn't my fault. Things die and it's nobody's fault. He looked away, out the taxi. Above the cafe a wavering point of light grew to fill a square, the window of the little room where they had so many times watched in reverse this scene of a departing taxi. The cloth wick, floating in a shallow pan of oil, always burned in their absence. To give us a sense of place, he had told her. Now it seemed all wrong, inappropriately bright. "Okay?" asked the driver, pivoting his woolly head to survey his eleven passengers. "Okay," echoed the Germans, slamming hard the double doors on their side, passing a bottle among themselves as they continued to snicker at some private amusement. Drunk. Just like a bunch of Krauts to be drunk all the way |
