Maline Café

I ordered dinner at the Maline, in a brown room that smelled like varnish and fruit. The menu was in Dutch so I took a chance. I sat in a big chair and marveled at my luck. I sat eating while the pendulum of the clock kept the hour. Then a yeasty breeze blew from the kitchen, and in that breeze came the maid with her hair tied in a kerchief. She busied herself about my table, and with a pouting look on her face, brushed my check with a quiet kiss.