An Accent with Quiche

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Somewhere in Germany, coordinates unknown, and who the hell cares anyway

I was in the Paris Bakery, sipping an Americano and eating spinach quiche, trying to read, and I couldn’t help but overhear two older men talking. The first one went on for some time about his wife and how she’s making him crazy and all the things she does. The second man who had a bit of an accent that I couldn’t quite recognize said, “Well, you know, you have to make her feel good about herself.”

“What do you mean,” he took a bite of his croissant, “like what, take her to Hawaii or something?”

“No, no, find something she does that you like, maybe, how she cooks your eggs and tell her. You know, the small stuff, tell the truth, and work up.” 

They changed the subject, and I went back to my book. A while later, they stood up to leave, and the one with the accent said, “If you make her feel good about herself, you’ll be surprised,” brushing crumbs off the table, “the woman you married will show up again.”