Francis Bonnefoy had never been the impatient type, but as he sat in the corner booth of La Tasca Maggiano – some Spanish/Italian restaurant he’d picked for a little variety – he found himself drumming his fingers and glancing at his white-gold watch every few seconds. It was a secluded little booth, tucked away behind a few curtains and strange decorations that France found perfectly horrendous, but he wanted the peace and quiet. It was a very special day for him and his wife, and he wanted this dinner to be for the two of them and the two of them alone. A waiter came by and deposited an expensive bottle of Italian wine onto his table; certainly not his first beverage choice, but the quality did look superb. He popped it open and filled his glass carefully half-way, even if he wasn’t intending to drink it until his partner arrived. He glanced around impatiently yet again; at least the Italians had good taste in paintings, he noted, becoming distracted. Someone cleared their throat and he glanced up, catching sight of Maria Beilschmidt standing a few feet from the table, one hand set on a jutted-out hip. He had to gulp – she looked positively ravishing. She was clad in a long cherry red cocktail dress with a slit all the way up the left side to her mid-thigh. Her gun holster was clearly visible attached to her lower thigh, her favourite pistol settled inside. France had become used to this behaviour; she never released her guns. The dress was tight, but not uncomfortably or inappropriately so, with a slight v-neckline and straps that tied around the back of the neck. In the crook of her elbows there rested a burgundy shawl and around her neck was her usual Iron Cross choker. Her hair wasn’t done up or pinned back, but she swept it a little to the sides so that her diamond earrings were clearly visible. There was a dash of smoky eye-shadow around the top of her eyelids, high-lighted with a streak of amber or light brown – France didn’t really know – but her icy eyes were stunning.
“Hallo Francis,” she said as she slipped into the booth across from him. He greeted her by taking her left hand and kissing the rings on her finger. She drew her hand back, looking considerably more peaceful.
“Bonsoir, Maria.” Her gaze cast around the building, scanning the décor and the other people present. For such a commercialized ‘romantic’ day, the building was sparsely inhabited, unless it was just built to give each table a secluded, private feel. In that case, Berlin began to appreciate the choice of restaurant just a little more. She ran her fingers around the edge of the wine glass in front of her, just basking in the silence for once, because it was so rare for them.
“Any particular reason you chose zis restaurant, Francis?” France looked up from his watch – he was now just looking at it as a nervous habit. He glanced around, folding his hands on the tabletop.
“Well, I always bring us to a French restaurant, or a German one. I wanted to try somezeeng different today.” He played with the menu, tracing it with his fingertips. “Eet may be a leetle spicy, cherie, I ‘ope you do not mind.” Berlin shook her head and reached across the table to place her hands over France’s with a slight smile.
“I don’t mind at all. ‘Und I got you a gift.” Berlin unfurled her shawl after taking her hands away from a surprised France. Hidden within the burgundy folds was a piece of deep indigo cloth and a small box with a very dainty, sophisticated ribbon keeping it closed. France tilted his head nearly imperceptively to one side, causing his pony-tail to fall onto his shoulder. Setting the box onto the mysterious fabric, Berlin passed it over the table to him, careful of his still half-full wine glass. France looked it over before unfolding it, holding up a new smock to the dim light of the restaurant.
“Eet is exquisite! Cherie, where did you get zis?” Berlin laughed.
“I made it myself.” France’s eyes widened considerably and he set the smock down on his lap.
“Made eet? You made zis all on your own?” Berlin nodded again and France broke out into a beaming grin. “Je l’adore. Eet is more zan perfect.” He then fiddled with the box, pulling at the ribbon. When he finally had coaxed it open, he saw that inside there were a few chocolates. The edges were not very even and they didn’t look professional at all. “More ‘omemade goodies?” Berlin flushed a little.
“Belgium v’as kind enough to help me cook zis. I-It might not be the best ‘und I’m sorry.” The first thing France did was pop one in his mouth and savour it, slowly.
“Delicieux,” he murmured. “Zey might not look ze most attracteeve, but Maria, zese are some of ze best chocolats I’ve had in years.” Berlin nodded her head.
“Danke.” Now, it was France’s turn. He slid a thin black leather case across the table at Berlin so that it stopped just before her hands. She picked it up and opened it right away, always the type to get right to the point. She stopped dead at what she saw though. Inside was a diamond and pearl necklace that just glimmered in the dim light and thrived, catching all the light and shining subtly if she so much as tweaked it to one side.
“Francis it’s… So beautiful!” She hadn’t even noticed him slip out of his seat and grab the necklace out of its case. Next thing she knew, it was falling around her collarbones as France hooked it in place.
“But not as beautiful as ze one who is wearing eet.” The entire air around the couple seemed to be filled with romantic energy as they smiled at one another.
