Magpie Tales II

I felt queasy from the cheap champagne served at the embassy

reception. The usual rounds of tedious small talk had given me a

headache. The wet November air was refreshing, as we stepped out

into the rustic streets. Fog had settled in, and it was already dark at

4:00. I felt the match box in my pocket, and realized I had left my

gloves at the hotel.

.

Old Town was unusually quiet; not a car in sight. Bratislava Castle

rose up from the mist on the hilltop, as if by magic, and I remember

thinking the night must have felt just this way, hundreds of years

earlier. He stopped at the corner, and turned to me.

"Heading back to the hotel? Mind if I join you?" His breath visible

in the cold.

.

Normally, I would have shared a cab with a colleague, but it was

only a ten minute walk downhill. Besides, there was not a taxi to be

hailed, even if we wanted one.

.

"Sure, I'd love the company." I smiled.

.

We clip-clopped down the murky pavement in silence, hands in my
pockets, aided by an occasional window, or house light above an

ornately carved door. Suddenly, my heel caught on a piece of

uneven paving stone, and I instinctively grabbed the sleeve of his

overcoat, to steady myself.

.

"Oops! Sorry about that. I guess these old streets aren't so heel

friendly."

.

"No problem. Here, take my arm."

.

We walked on, without speaking, my left hand nestled around his

arm, and my right tightly gripped the matchbox in my pocket.

.

Just before turning down the block leading to the hotel, we paused
under the soft glow of an iron street light, while he pulled a cigar out
of his breast pocket. I struck a match from the box, moist from my

palm, and lit it.

.

.

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