The Best Day

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“Here you are—enjoy.” The waitress set a cup of coffee and piece of cake on my table. The cake was tall with alternating layers of chocolate, whipped cream, and sour cherries: Black Forest Cherry Cake—my favorite.

I sat back, to take in the whole picture before my first bite. The day was warm with a hint of autumn. From my outdoor table at the Café Vis a Vis on the Brühlsche Terrace, I faced Neustadt and the Elbe river. To the left and rear were the baroque spires and buildings of Dresden’s classic skyline. In the late-day sun, a steady stream of people walked past, or stopped to lean on the railings or sit on benches facing the river.
Many of the people who passed looked at the plates or the faces of we who sat at the café, and more than a few took a table for themselves. I took my first bite. Exquisite. I’d had a standup lunch at a bratwurst stand on the Altmarkt to budget for this extravagance, and it was perfect.

To my right, the sound of a low-key spat. The woman at the next table was unhappy about something. She talked in a low voice to the man at the table with her. I couldn’t understand what she said and tried to tune her out. The man playfully offered her a bite of his cake. She turned her face away and lit a cigarette.

Taking a deep drag, she stared out over the river, unseeing.

I turned my attention back to my own table, but her discontent nagged at me, like a crumpled beer can in the middle of a landscape photo I was composing. It seemed to me that you’d really have to work at it, to be unhappy in this setting.

My second bite tasted even better, the sweet of the cream and chocolate offset by sips of black coffee and the taste of sour cherry. Life was good. Germany is reunited, Dresden is being rebuilt and will be there for me to visit again. The sun was warm on my skin.

Chairs scraped—the couple had paid and was leaving. I noticed the elegant high-heeled boots the woman was wearing and thought, “Well, there’s your problem.”

They strolled across the paving stones, then she leaned against the railing as he snapped a few pictures of her. She had long lean legs in tight jeans, and a smooth dark 60s secret-agent-girl haircut. She smiled for the camera as if this were the best day of her life. I sat up, startled by the contrast, then they strolled on. Her face settled back into discontent, and I heard her say, “But I told you…,” as they walked out of earshot.

In ten years, when she runs across that picture in a drawer, the man will have moved on. He and his next wife will have a boy about to start Kindergarten in the fall. She’ll have a new husband, too—one with more money. She won’t be as beautiful anymore. When she thinks of this day, will she remember the argument, or walking across cobblestones on those teetering heels? Perhaps she will take the photo at face value: herself, young and beautiful, smiling radiantly on the best day of her life.

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