As he sat sipping café au lait on the Champs–Élysées, Monsieur Guy Flaubert engaged in his favourite pastime; that of hating people.
With its cinemas, cafés, luxury specialty shops and clipped horse-chestnut trees, this was the perfect milieu from which to “regardez” and “detester tout le monde.”
“Tout le monde” could not miss him, either, for the very air around him was cold. He had a pale, grey complexion, with thin lips, steel-blue eyes and a walking cane seemingly made from solid sneers.
When passersby were foolhardy enough to meet his sang-froid gaze directly, he would fling a hard, stale croissant at their heads.
A fixture at Café Qui-Est-La for as long as anyone remembered, he would leave as the café closed, returning only when the ‘ouvert’ sign turned over the next morning.
One day, a new waitress named Genevieve, after seeing him ding yet another croissant-worthy tourist in the temple, approached him and asked the unthinkinable:
“Pourquoi?”
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Clocks all along the Champs stopped. He looked up at her with complete puzzlement.
“Pourquoi?” he repeated. “Pourquoi?” He turned it over in his mind as his eyes bored into hers. Then, he replied.
“Pourquoi pas?”
And in that moment, the maelstrom of all his memories, dreams, disappointments, triumphs, loves and heartaches poured from him into her.
She gasped, leaning on him for support, her eyes never leaving his. And together, they wept silently.
