They agreed not to fall in love. It was an unwritten contract, spoken only with their eyes, signed only with their mouths, quivering, not touching. It was melodramatic the way they held the meeting of the minds: she cannot carry more than two trays at a time; he could only swallow so much of a mouthful.

They agreed not to fall in love. It was decided seven years ago on the day they met, a rainy Tuesday afternoon, at a western eatery overlooking The Seine.

He came in, she remembered, shaking the water out of his black hair and leather jacket, looking like a lost puppy. His boots squeaked as he staggered towards her, almost slipping, she noticed. Then he asked for a corner table.

- For how many?

- One.

- Smoking?

- Non-smoking.

Good, she smiled calmly; he smiled peacefully, perhaps out of deference, or bewilderment, or just glad to be seated.

- The menu?

- Oh.

It was still in her hands, pressed close to her chest — heaving, straining against the polka-dotted uniform, sending mixed greetings: he didn't notice or pretended not to, as she gave the menu to him. He concentrated instead on her folded hands; their backs looked soft like powder puffs.

Perhaps, he thought, her hands could be light and quick, like short brushstrokes. They would love a man tenderly, caressing lightly like air.

- Drinks?

His eyes darted up. She stood for a moment, still in pools of mercury, drowning, and not wanting to be saved.

- Water.

He looked down, back at the words; black ink flew across plastic, like crows pecking his eyes out — he, disoriented; she stayed, hovering and protective, blocking out the rays of sun peeking through the slit of blinds. He thought: mother, eagle.

- Your order?

- Not now.

- A minute?

- Sure.

She departed like a wave, her large hips gently swaying back and forth, pressing against her skirt against space. He supposed she would bear him many children.

It was 1995. Five years near the end, or so some thought. There wasn't much time, to waste, to dream, whatever there was left to dream. To imagine a family, hopefully, a good one wouldn't be so bad. The thought of creating, forming something meaningful during the late season — yes, a bountiful family — would not be so bad.

She came back later, armed with a furtive smile, a gypsy dancing towards a fire. There was a pen lounging against her fingers, like ribbons entangling. It was only a matter of time before they choked him.

- Ready?

- Yes.

In his hair, she noticed a few wayward strands of aspen gold against black flying stubbornly. Perhaps, so was he.

- A tenderloin, please.

- How large?

- Twelve ounces.

She examined the roots of his hair, coarse, wiry, and disappearing. He must be getting older.

- How cooked?

- Medium rare.

Through the small partings of his hair, she saw the pores of his scalp, the light reflecting its moisture.

- Sauce?

- Black pepper.

She lowered her eyes to the nape, and his shoulders, wide and taut, for carrying heavy loads, perhaps.

- Sides?

- Baked potato.

- That's all?

What else could there be? He thought. There weren't many alternatives. As in life, at least in his.

- Sour cream.

With her gaze, she traced his arms flexing beneath the shirt. How self-conscious was he to keep himself muscular like that?

- I'll be back.

He had watched her glide back to the kitchen, ringing up his order. She chatted casually, familiarly with the men, and their leering grins, their sweaty faces. Pimps, he thought, as she waited, and he waited, sneaking a few glances. There was her thigh propped on a low stool, her knee bending. He looked: her legs seemed flexible enough; perhaps they would be good for hiking.

His eyes continued to wander. There were few people in the room, most were leisurely reading, talking, smoking, thinking, observing. He counted the heads: more men than women — mostly by themselves. The ratio seemed unbalanced and unfair to him. He remembered reading some books on the family in crisis. Divorce rates were rising, they said. So too was the number of women preferring to be single: unlike for women, "it [was] still far too easier for men to maintain both a professional career and a family."

He remembered laughing and wondering how easy was "far easier." He didn't think of it as a joke. So did many of the men it seemed: "growing numbers are avoiding marriage and the family, instead choosing to live for an extended period as single men, unfettered by marital and parental obligations." Unfettered: Unchained, unshackled, unconfined, unrestrained.

Yes, people would like to be "unfettered." They came a long way from the old days, when men were hunters and women gatherers, to turn around now. As the book said, people were "increasingly unwilling to give up merely for convenience what we were formerly compelled to give up out of necessity... it is certainly more true of women." This was in 1993, not that long ago.

Finally, his food came, she balancing it on two trays like a woman walking the tightwire. She laid them on the table like a sacrifice to a God.

- Enjoy.

- I will.

It was her turn to watch, judge, and make small impressions. She had sat at the table near him, studied him making small incisions carefully on the meat into almost equal square parts. Ahhh, she thought, what a waste of time!

But he continued in his ritual, turning the fork around and around, checking his steak as if for poison. He would make a good father, she believed, he would be concerned for his children's safety. Finally seeming satisfied, the man strategically placed the pieces in his mouth, chewed gingerly, slowly, as if time gave way to taste.

He savoured it long enough, and she imagined, here was a man who could appreciate the small things in life. All the better for her, and she saw he had beautiful, strong hands, good enough to knead the dough, her children would not starve. Those hands could build houses, chop wood for warmth; they would do for her.

She found them wiping his lips clean each time he took a bite. Most likely, he was neat and meticulous, perfect for packing luggage when they would go on trips. His fingers were like small screwdrivers; now, they were folding and folding the napkin into a small, neat triangle. He had finished eating and asked for the bill. Perhaps, she thought, he didn't find excess economy attractive. He would be tough to please.

- How much?

- Here.

He threw in the exact change, to the penny, and walked out to the rain like a ghost. That was seven years ago.

Now, the same again: today, a rainy Tuesday afternoon, at a western eatery overlooking The Seine. There were more trees and more people, still enjoying the same activities: reading, talking, smoking, thinking, observing. He had come in every day since then, asking for the same dinner table for one. And always, she serving him, sometimes watching him as he watched her. She asked the same basic questions, and the same responses were received. But this time more words were added.

- The kids?

- At school.

- You'll be home?

- Late.

- Again?

- Don't wait up.

- I won't. Wait!

- What?

- The tickets?

- Got them.

- Packed?

- Of course.

- With mine?

- Who else's?

- See you.

- Happy Anniversary.

Was that a smile touching his lips? Perhaps a furtive gesture? She was unsure, but waved back tentatively, in case he wouldn't notice. She did not want to look like a fool. She had far more important matters in her hands. And matters had changed (there were the kids, a bigger house) but did not progress. They did not want them to.

It had been an understanding between them. No emotions, no baggage. There would be no complications, no manipulations, no questions like who owed who what, or "where's the apology". They only wanted to live their lives — not leave then, not love them, but just live --- without strings. There wouldn't be any hurt feelings as there would be no feelings to be hurt. It would be simpler this way. This cycle began and ended at the same point, like rivers flowing out to the sea.

All she had to do was follow, jump in as if hopping on a roller- coaster letting it take her where it would take her, letting go, being free. No attachments. No. She did not want to think. No time. No use to think. The clock ticked today; tomorrow would be the same. But she allowed herself once to think: when she had stood still drowning in pools of mercury, remembering seven years back.

That day she had asked him before he sauntered out to the rain like a ghost:

- Marry me?

- Fine.

- No love?

- Agreed.

Hey wonderful person! Have you noticed that I like writing in juxtapositions? For example, I entitled this piece as "A Mouthful" and yet the couple barely says a full sentence to each other!

I like constrasts like unspoken words, silent screaming, and am usually deliberate in my choice or words.
Although, I'm quite chatty once I warm up to people and then you'll wish I could stop talking. Hahaha.

Are you talkative or a person of few words?