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"Deux croissants, s'il-vous plaȋt.“ The blond man showed two fingers to the vendor and smiled dazzlingly.
Apollo watched the bakery staff pull out three more batches of warm, crisp croissants from the oven and stow two of them into a red paper bag. The man paid with a few coins he had fished out of his back pocket and turned around, in search of a place to take a seat. The summer sun bit in his eyes, Apollo noticed from his seat in a parasol's shadow. The stranger shielded his eyes with his free hand and met Apollo's stare.
Please don't come here, Apollo thought, please don't come here, please--
"Bonjour. Est-ce que je peux m'assoir à coté de vous?“ Of course, luck was not on his side.
Apollo smiled curtly. "Sorry, I don't speak french, no… hablo...“ Maybe that would turn him away?
Unfortunately, it did not.
"Ah, kein Problem! I was worried you did, my French is also barely good enough to buy croissants.“ The man laughed and downright fell into the chair opposite to Apollo.
He was not ugly, Apollo begrudgingly acknowledged. His sky-blue eyes bore into his own and his honey-blond hair was put into a careless ponytail. The dark blue dress shirt (who wears a dress shirt to the beach, Apollo wondered) and the orange shorts contradicted each other like night and day.
Surfer boy, Apollo thought and cringed a little. Surfer boy… who works an office job?
"Meine Güte, this city is pretty,“ the man began to gush while unwrapping his croissants. "Want one?“
Apollo accepted the pastry, if only to be polite. It was still warm and heavenly buttery. When was the last time he had eaten something this nice?
"So, you don't speak French, yet you sit here, at Marseille's harbour, on a Wednesday in June. You neither carry a dictionary nor have you ordered something to drink in this heat. I conclude, you are not here for the holidays.“ The man pulled out a pair of black sunglasses from his backpack and stuck them up his hair. He looked ridiculous.
"Got me all figured out, haven't you?“
"Have I?“
"Okay,“ Apollo breathed through his nose, half in annoyance, half in amusement. "If I'm not here for holidays, what am I doing here, on a Wednesday in June no less?“
The man eyed him. Tired, brown eyes. Brown hair, of which two strands had escaped the gel that slicked back the rest. Black slacks and a dirt-white dress shirt with rolled up sleeves. No backpack, just a black coat that screamed I feel important.
"You're not here on purpose.“
Ding ding ding, Apollo thought sarcastically. The stranger was right, in a way. Not that he would admit it.
"I'm right. Your sour face does not fit this city. Care to confide in a stranger? What's your name, anyway?“
Whatever, Apollo judged. We will never meet again anyway.
"My name is Apollo. Justice. I'm a lawyer. Well, in the making.“ At that, he scoffed. "I have this internship over the holidays. My boss is on a business trip to meet up with other lawyers, and he said I should come too. To gain experience.“ Damn you, Mr. Wright.
The man nodded and crossed his legs. Left over right. His white sandals reflected the sun for a second.
"The trip was supposed to go to London. They cancelled last-minute, though, said Paris was the better choice. Apparently, my boss didn't get the notice, so we flew to London. And then he had to buy new tickets but the only ones available were to goddamn-Marseille. He said it wouldn't be far and that we could go to Paris. By train. Hates flying. I guess in the middle of that jumble he forgot to tell me that his sense of orientation is absolute bullshit.“
Angrily, he noticed his cheeks turning pink from agitation. A pull at his croissant left a trail of crumbs on the cheap white table.
"And where is your boss now?“
"Why are you listening to me?“, Apollo asked suddenly.
The man laughed and replied with a question: "Why shouldn't I?“
Apollo had no answer to that. A light, not un-awkward silence blanketed them for a moment. He brushed the crumbs off the table. They watched a lone seagull stalking over to pick at them.
"What are you doing here, anyway?“
"Nun ja, other than a certain someone, I am spending my holidays here. Trying to brush up my French,“ he pulled out a pocket dictionary out of seemingly nowhere and threw it on the table. "So far, I have not made progress.“
Apollo snorted. Then, horrified by the sound he had made, he covered his mouth with both hands.
"I'm glad I could make you laugh, Herr Forehead.“ The stranger said and smiled.
"Her... what?“
"Herr. Mister. Monsieur. Forehead.“
"Really?“, Apollo huffed. "We have known each other for, like, an hour, and you already insult me?“
The blond just laughed. A staccato Ha, ha, ha, trying its best to show the lightheartedness of the stupid nickname.
"So, where are you from originally?“
"Germany. And you?“
"I'm from Spain. Barcelona, to be precise.“ Apollo smiled at the thought of his home city.
He missed the bustle of the Plaça de Catalunya with its many tourists, the overtly expensive boutiques of the nearby Passeig de Gràcia, where Mr. Wright had bought him his first ever suit and, of course, the Oficina jurídico del Wright.
"I've never been there,“ the stranger looked him straight in the eyes.
"You should visit some time!“ Apollo exclaimed, finally having found a topic he could talk about hours on end. "It's full and loud and ugly, and-“
When he finished his rambling, it had gotten darker outside. Most of the café's visitors had left already and mosquitoes had taken a liking to their exposed skin.
"Let me take you out for dinner?“, the stranger asked and brushed off one of the damned bloodsuckers. His rings clinked. "I suppose you have no money, and I could never let company of me skip dinner.“
No, thank you, is what Apollo wanted to say, you have done enough for me. Actually, I should just leave. He opened his mouth, just to hear himself say: "Okay. Thank you.“
For a tourist, the stranger knew the city awfully well. They walked down the pier, dipped into the bright light of a late sunset. Somehow, the man’s hair looked like liquid gold, held together only by a tacky hair pin.
They reached a small restaurant and were seated immediately. From their table, they had a full view over the beach dipped into almost-night blue.
"What do you want to eat, Herr Forehead?“
Apollo stared at the menu that had been placed before him. Moules à la crème, filets de sandre aux pommes de terres, fruits de mer?
"I, uh… I'll go with the… fish?“ As soon as the words had left his mouth, he regretted them.
The blond laughed. "Would you like a drink with your very specific fish?“
"You choose,“ Apollo grumbled into his non-existent beard and started folding his napkin into an (admittedly quite droopy) origami crane.
"Bonsoir, messieurs. Voulez-vous commander?“ The waitress clicked her pen twice and smiled coolly.
"Oui, merci. Vous voudriez avoir la bouillabaisse pour deux et...“ He looked at Apollo questioningly. "Is alcohol okay?“
Apollo nodded.
"… et le rosé. Deux verres, un litre. Merci beaucoup.“ He flashed a polite smile and received a nod.
The food came in the middle of their conversation about drinks. It was so easy to get lost in sheer-endless rambles with this man that he has known for, what, five hours?
The fish tasted nice. It was nothing particularly special, but nice. The rosé they had ordered was even nicer, especially after the second glass.
"You know,“ was that a giggle? "Your hair is funny. It’s defying physics.“
“Huh?” Apollo stared in question and reached up to his antennae.
“According to all known laws of… physics, your hair shouldn’t be doing…” He gestured towards his head. “... that.”
They finished their fish. “Thank you for the food,” and for everything else, Apollo thought.
“I don’t know how I should repay you-”
“Ah, nein, nein. Please, I offered.”
Over dessert, a Mousse au chocolat with more rum than chocolate, they discussed life, the universe and everything in-between. Contently tipsy, Apollo found himself opening up even more, about his sister, about his plans for the future. In return, he learned about the man’s passion (expensive guitars) and his dislikes (cheap guitars).
Sighing, the stranger opened the first two buttons of his shirt. In doing so, he revealed part of his torso.
“It’s gotten so warm all of a sudden,” he explained to no one in particular.
"Is that a tattoo?“ Apollo suddenly pointed to the stranger's left shoulder. A crooked line, vanishing into the part veiled by his shirt, almost shying away from the gazes of whoever would look at him.
“Yes,” the stranger rubbed it sheepishly. “I got it when I was 17, thinking I will love it forever… And now I regret ever setting foot into the tattoo shop.”
They chuckled together. Apollo himself had no tattoos but very well knew the feeling of regret regarding life-changing decisions.
For a second, he considered asking if he could see it but decided against it. If the blond went so far as saying he regretted it, he probably wouldn’t want strangers to examine it any closer.
A brassy guitar riff interrupted his internal discord. "Scheiße,“ the man cursed with a look on his smartphone. "Entschuldige mich, I'll have to take this.“
Apollo nodded in surprise and turned to the fogged window. Outside, he could see the stranger gesture wildly, his high ponytail swinging from side to side.
Maybe his girlfriend, wondering where he was? His stomach dropped a little at that thought, or, well, maybe at the amount of rosé in it. He quickly brushed the thought aside.
"I'm so sorry, Herr Forehead.“ The man returned to his place, although he stayed at the edge of his seat. "That was my brother. He… doesn't like not knowing where I am.“
"I assume that's the end of the night, then?“ Apollo asked and couldn't suppress the slight mistune of disappointment in his voice.
"Ah, Herr Forehead, don't frown,“ the stranger towered over him and smoothed out the wrinkles on Apollo's forehead with his right thumb. “Thank you for today.” He smiled. For the first time this day, it reached his stormy eyes. A wave of petrichor perfume and rose water rushed over Apollo, then it was gone.
And with it, the stranger.
When Apollo turned back to the table to finish his drink, a ripped out page of the English-French dictionary placed under his glass caught his attention. Page 287. With elegant letters, the stranger had left a phone number next to the word amour, the last number transitioning into a scrawly heart.
His own heart raced in his chest. Grabbing his coat, he bolted out of the restaurant. His eyes widened with desperation: The stranger had just crossed the street.
"What's your name?“, Apollo yelled across the street, holding the paper and his coat in clammy hands. He had forgotten to ask, and the stranger had not introduced himself.
The man smiled widely. "The name's Klavier. Alles Gute, Sonnenschein.“
And with that, he was gone, and loneliness greeted Apollo like an old friend.