The Night Cafe

Le Café de nuit (The Night Cafe) 
Photograghed at Yale Art Gallery

It’s getting dark. 

Faint halos shine from the gas ceiling lamps. The bar is immersed in the dim lemon yellow lights. The colors of the wall and ceiling are completely contrasting ----the harsh blood red and dark green. There is also a private room hidden in the bar, always half-curtained. It’s a family business and I inherited it from my dad. I have no idea why they painted it in these colors.

Although it’s late at night, it’s just the beginning of the nightlife of some people. My regular customers are lavish in drinking. They always shout “one more” until they have snakes in their boots. Now it’s about one o’clock. Empty bottles are scattered around on tables but I’m not bothering to clear off the tables. I usually do it the next day. The drunks and derelicts are huddling down in sleep or stupor. They will wake up naturally next morning and go back home consciously.

I’m playing billiards when Charles, aka “the Winebag”, who steps into my bar in the familiar swagger, shouting at me “two martinis, shaked, not stirred”. He always orders it. Charles makes straight towards the seat in the corner. He always sits there. I mix the cocktail and serve it. He act like a cat on hot bricks, looking out the café door and continuing to sip his Martini.

Charles is the executive officer of the local police department. He throws his police badge and pistol on the table and stands up, pacing back and forth. Suddenly he rushes to the front door and embraces the hot chick who just comes into the bar. With a thickly made-up face, she doesn’t seem like a serious person.

“Hi, babe, I’m Catherine, what’s your name?” 

“Forget it, come on, I don’t care who you are.” he says, puffing heavily, snatching at the girl’s arm. He then pulls her into the chair in the corner. They caress each other wildly and the situation seems out of control motivated by the alcohol.

They go into the half-curtained room. That’s the first time Charles uses this room, well of course it’s not the first time the room is used. 

“Maybe one day I will close the café.” I mumble to myself, leaning forward, continuing to play the billiard.