Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Two women sit outside a café in Prague. They’re both twenty-four years old, American, and this is their first trip to Europe. One of them made lists, read travel books, brought an adapter for the outlets. The other brought outfits.

They drink strong black coffee, even though it’s late. They’re tired, still not quite adjusted to the time zone. And they’re intimidated. The world is so big, so much bigger than they ever imagined. They don’t speak the language. They’re not sure if they have enough money. They don’t understand how much they need to tip or if they even need to tip at all.

One wishes she’d brought more stylish clothes, like the other. That one wishes she’d brought more comfortable shoes. That one wonders why she doesn’t miss her boyfriend, if maybe they should break up. The other wishes she had a partner, someone to wonder if she missed.

The women have been friends for a long time, so they don’t need to say any of this to each other. They already know. They’re content to just sit in silence.

Though it’s not silence. There are people all around them, mostly speaking Czech.

Not the people at the next table, though. They speak English.

But that’s not what first draws the two young American women’s attention. It’s an odd cast of characters. There’s a redhead wearing head-to-toe lace, what’s essentially lingerie. There’s a tall, regal, curly-haired blonde in velvet. There’s a man with a buzzed head, tattoos, gold teeth. A pixie sits in his lap—a petite woman with short dark hair. Then there’s the loud one—a beautiful man in a black T-shirt and leather pants, his hair coming loose from a messy bun.

And the mysterious one. He leans back in his chair, smoking a cigarette. His shaggy hair is dirty blond, and maybe actually dirty. He’s distracted, staring off into the distance. Like he’s looking for someone. Like he’s waiting for someone.

“Hello, loves!” says the loud one.

At first, the young American women wonder if he’s speaking to them. They blush, sit up a little straighter.

But they soon realize his hello wasn’t for them. It was for the two women behind them, walking down the street hand in hand. One with strawberry blond hair, wearing a white blazer over a short dress, a pair of Chuck Taylors. The other with black hair in a braid that falls down past her hips, wearing a bright yellow peasant blouse, cutoff jean shorts, and over-the-knee boots.

They move in sync, whispering to each other. Laughing.

The two young American women watch them, awestruck. There’s something about them. They seem so sure of themselves. So confident. So content. Like they’ve walked these streets a thousand times before. Like they know exactly where they’re going. Like they want for nothing. The black-haired one rests her head on the strawberry blonde’s shoulder.

“That’ll be us someday,” one of the Americans says to the other. “That’ll be us.”

“Maybe it already is,” says the strawberry blonde as she passes their table. The black-haired one turns around, blowing a kiss.