It had rained the night before.  Puddles of gray water stood in the hotel courtyard between clumps of dead leaves.  The bad weather was unusual for the time of year in Heidelberg.

Paul sat at his usual chair in the dull morning light.  He pushed his empty breakfast plate away, packed and lit his pipe.

He looked at his watch.  It was almost nine o’clock.

Paul ate breakfast in the courtyard every day it wasn’t raining, all that summer and fall.  Every morning he sat in the courtyard until nine, waiting for Marjorie to walk past.  She was never later than five past nine.

Paul picked up his newspaper, fiddled with it for a moment for show.  He couldn’t read German.  He had been in Europe for six months, touring, living on the proceeds of the sale of his dry-cleaning business. 

A slight breeze made the air chilly.  Paul’s Irish wool sweater was warm, but he felt the chill on his hands.  In another week or two, he’d have to start having his breakfast indoors.  He did not want to do that; he did not want to miss seeing Marjorie walk past in the mornings.

He had watched her walk by every morning for six weeks.  He knew only that Marjorie, like him, was an American, that she lived in a small pension down Rathausstrasse from his hotel, and that she worked for a German company that made juice drinks.  He found that out by asking the owner of the pension.  He hadn’t ever spoken to Marjorie, much as he wanted that.

Today would be different.

The sun broke through the gray clouds, just a bit.  He heard the tapping of Marjorie’s shoes coming down the walk, towards the Strassbahn station at the corner of Rathausstrasse and Karlsruher Strasse.

Paul got to his feet.  He folded the German paper and laid it down, awkwardly. He straightened the hang of his jacket.  The tapping came closer.

He saw her flash past the courtyard’s narrow entrance, walking briskly, her short black hair bobbing, the dull light glancing off her round glasses.  Tall and slim, she walked quickly, her long brown coat swinging as she strode by.

Then she was gone, the sound of her shoes tapping away down the sidewalk.

This afternoon would be better, Paul told himself.  I don’t want to make her late for work.

He sat down again, fidgeted as he finished his coffee.

Afternoon found Paul standing near the front door of the hotel, watching down the sidewalk.  He had never done that before.  He watched, down the walk towards the corner, watching as Marjorie appeared, walking back up the sidewalk towards the pension.

Paul straightened his tie.  He stepped onto the walk as Marjorie approached.  He looked at her, making eye contact for the first time, and said in English, “Nice afternoon, isn’t it?”

Marjorie paused.  Paul smiled, waited for her to reply.

“Ja,” she said at last.  “Es tut mir Lied. Ich muss gehen.”  She swept on past and walked away, her shoes tapping briskly on the pavement.

Paul stood and watched her walk away.  He went back into the hotel and sat in the chair by the window, watching the street as it began to rain again.  He sat there for a long time.

When the next morning broke bright and sunny, Paul hired a car to take him to Frankfurt, where he bought an airline ticket for Atlanta and home.