This is a short story that I wrote as an exercise in editing and using various writing techniques i.e portraying the story through scene, dialogue and action. It was written in a day and I edited the hell out of it. I had to bring it down from over 2,000 words to 1,000 which was a job and a half, meaning that I had to cut out pieces that I personally liked but weren't entirely necessary. A very useful exercise and cathartic. 

Here's the finished product. I hope you like it.

A Table By The Window

If I hadn’t arrived early I wouldn’t have got the table. I wanted the table by the window, it gave me advance warning. But, like me he arrived early. I had hardly taken off my coat when I spotted him striding past the window, his iPhone stuck to his ear, a frown on his face. Two minutes later he stood in front of me.

“Hello Jeanie”.

 Nobody else called me Jeanie. He made my name sound so much more exotic than flat one- syllabled Jean. That syrupy Italian accent that turned the most banal of everyday words –dustbin, tomato, toilet paper, into poetry. It was a formidable weapon.

“Luca” I nodded. I could be civilised.

He hung his jacket across the back of the chair and placed his hands across the table palms down. He leaned forward so that our faces were nearly touching and I was inhaling his Acqua di Parma.

  “You want coffee? Latte, Mocha?”

“Yes, please. I’ll have a latte”

“Something to eat? A sandwich or a pastry?”

“No thanks. Just the coffee”

He pivoted and approached the counter. I watched him gesticulating as he ordered, conjuring words in the air. A tattoo peeped from under the right sleeve of his polo shirt. A rose. I closed my eyes and imagined its thorny progress as it travelled up his bicep to meet the bird of paradise on his shoulder. “Jeanie” appeared on his left shoulder above “Mama” and the Hands of God.

I wondered if he would now cover it with another’s name or perhaps a portrait of the Pope. When I re-opened them he was standing at the table watching me quizzically. He had bought coffee and a plate of pastries. Typical Luca, he didn’t like to eat alone.  It was an Italian thing.  He placed the pastries in the centre of the table and handed the coffee over, before pulling his chair in tight to the table. He started picking at a pastry with his fingers before popping a piece into his mouth.

“So how are you?” his tone was polite.

 We hadn’t seen each other since he’d moved out. A week ago (seven days, six hours and counting).

“I’ m good” I said fiddling with an earring. Even though, I was anything but. I forced my hands into my lap under the table where they fought each other like little silent dogs.

“You’re looking well”

And I was suddenly and stupidly pleased with the compliment.  I had deliberately dressed down, jeans and boots with a baggy jumper. A lick of mascara, some lippy. Okay I’d had my hair done but it looked the right type of tousled, as if I’d just got out of bed but with really good hair.

“Thanks” I smiled and took a sip of the coffee. “How are things in the restaurant?” We were grown ups, we could be civilised.

“Really good, thank you, lots of covers, busy, you know?”

 He was practically beaming, his enthusiasm nearly contagious. Nearly but not quite. Busy was one of our problems. Busy was a deal breaker.

“And your folks?” I liked his parents. They were good people.

“They miss you” He concentrated on his pastry.

“I miss them too”. I miss you more; the words were unspoken across the table top.

And that was the moment right there.

In a movie the camera would pan around the table, the lights receding to a single spot above us, an indie track would start to filter in slowly.

“How’s James?” And like that he ruined it.

Luca!” I groaned. “I told you I haven’t seen him since the party”

I pushed the coffee away from me and glared at him. Jesus!

“I saw you kissing another man! Did you expect me to just forget? I can’t” He was shouting. The couple at the next table stopped their conversation to listen into ours. He lowered his voice and shook his head in disbelief.

“You know what happened. I’ve told you a million times. Why can’t you just believe me?”

“I believe what I saw” he had that look on his face; full of self righteousness.

“What you saw was me saying goodnight to an old friend, a drunken peck on the lips. Nothing more”

“That’s not what it looked like to me!”

“If you’d been there at the bloody party it wouldn’t have happened”

“Okay…I get it. It’s all my fault” he laughed sarcastically.

“It was my 30^th Birthday Party, Luca! Everyone was there except for you. How do you think I felt?”

“I told you I was held up, I was really...

“Busy?” I spat out the word.

He looked away from me. His phone rang.

“Don’t answer that” Our eyes met. The phone continued to ring in his pocket.

He cursed, pulled it out and answered.

I grabbed my bag and stood up.

He held a hand up. “Wait” he mouthed.

“There’s just no point”.

I grabbed my coat and walked out.

I was half way down the street when the rain started. Great. I pulled my coat around me and searched in vain for a taxi. I was just turning the corner in the direction of the Tube station when I heard footsteps behind me. He was running hard. .

“It’s ok.” He grabbed my arm. “It’s ok”

The phone rang again. I glared at him. He answered, grabbing my hand tightly as I wriggled to get away.

“Listen, I’m not coming in tonight or tomorrow. That’s right. Ok. Ring you later”. He winked at my shocked expression and hung up.

“Is it ok?” he held both my hands captive. I thought for a moment.

“Say my name” I looked up at him, flicking the wet fringe out of my eyes.

“What?” he looked confused.

“Jeanie” It rolled off his tongue, deliciously.

I closed my eyes. “That’s what I’m talking about”

“Ho mangiato la vostra pasticceria”

“What?” I leaned closer.

“I ate your pastry”

I punched him on the arm.