La Tartine

By Samuel Merrin

La Tartine was the type of café that only the exceptionally high-class would dare attend. If a poll were to be taken of the parishioners of La Tartine (the likes of whom were dedicated and regular visitors to the patisserie) less than five per-cent would be capable of translating La Tartine into English.

Not that it mattered. La Tartine was a place where daughters’ dating records were discussed and scrutinized. Where school plays were reviewed in terms of costumes and parental participation. Where garden landscapings were planned and airily molded over foamy cappuccinos and three-inch tall cylindrical mousse desserts.

“Rebecca,” a mother began, stirring sugar carefully into an otherwise black coffee, “you know I don’t like it when you put on that face.”

“Sorry, Mom.” The face remained. “I just don’t like talking about this with you. It’s too weird.”

“Well, I’m sorry Rebecca, but it’s something we really have to discuss. I need to know if you think that white is the right choice for me. I mean, everyone knows it’s not my first marriage, but I just feel like the traditional nature of a white dress just so belongs to a wedding, that the virginity symbolism won’t be given a second thought.”

“You know what, Mom?” Rebecca said, looking her mother straight in the eyes with a ferocity seen rarely in the quiet, somewhat sullen teenager. “I don’t care what color dress you wear, I don’t even care that you’re getting married! I don’t care if you wear a red, sparkly—”

A crash interrupted the heated conversation, and the robot army arrived as if summoned on cue. They ate everyone in La Tartine.