Our Infinite Fates

TWO DAYS AFTER MY father was shot on the beach, I had to work.

I’d been a waiter at Chez Anouilh since I’d left school the previous summer, bringing squat glasses of black coffee to the French expats who’d taken over the town. The cold Parisian owner insisted I come straight to my shift from my dad’s funeral, cheeks dry and salty, the scent of geraniums and wet earth following me around like a ghost.

The cafe was a few streets back from the beach, notched between a tobacconist’s and a bakery. It was a pretty boulevard, lined with fig trees and cars, the smell of fresh bread mingling with the tang of gasoline. When the locals sought shade inside during the peak of the afternoon, the pavements crawled with cats. Today, the tobacconist sat outside his shop in a folding deckchair, smoking and watching the world go by.

The sky overhead was black with clouds, and the humid air threatened rain.