The Coffee Shop on Notre-Dame

The place on Notre-Dame has six tables and a grinder loud enough to end a conversation. I take the one by the window because the radiator is under it.

A couple sits at the table across. They're arguing, I think, though it takes me a while to be sure — they're doing it quietly, in two languages, switching often enough that I can't tell who's losing.

He makes his case in French. She answers in English. Then mid-sentence she goes to French and he goes to English, and it's like watching two people change sides of the net without stopping the rally.

Nobody here announces the switch. There's no pause, no sorry, en français. You just go, and the other one goes with you, and afterward neither of you could say which half was said in what.

She wins. I know because he gets up for the sugar he doesn't take.

The grinder starts. When it stops they're holding hands across the table and still not agreeing.

My coffee has gone cold in the good way, where it tastes like the beans instead of the heat. Outside, the 36 goes by mostly empty, throwing slush up onto the curb.