edit less more

Here are the rules.

Here is the prompt:

Now write:

She did not know why she had agreed to meet him on Golden Road, under the Franz Kafka sign. “I’ve never read Kafka,” she told him.

“Never read Kafka?” he was incredulous. “Who hasn’t read Kafka?”

She watched him take a bite much too large of his potato salad, dressing forming a teardrop formation from the corner of his cracked lips. The sun was too bright. She squinted and felt the sear of the sunburn on her forehead when it wrinkled.

“I mean, come on! I bet you read Danielle Steele.”

She wished he would close his mouth when he talked; his tongue speckled with mustard and mayo and partially masticated potato chunks.

“Nora Roberts? Jesus. I can’t believe you haven’t read Kafka.”

“Ucet, prosim” she said to their Czech waitor. He nodded and disappeared into the darkness of the cafe interior. The family at the next patio table spoke French and laughed.

“What? Are you mad?” He wiped his mouth.

He was ugly. There was not a single thing about him that she found attractive; but she was lonely, already two weeks in Prague, and such time spent encased in solitude made her feel the universe had swallowed her half way and then belched her out.

“I can’t believe you’re mad.” He threw up his hands and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his belly. “Okay. Danielle Steele is a genius.”

The waitor came. He stood. He smelled of garlic, and she liked it. He smiled at her, apologetically, and she felt embarrassed to dine with the rude American who talked too loud. “Dekuji” she said to him. Thank you.

“Fine, but we’re still meeting up at 8, right?”

The French father glanced sideways and slurped his drink.

“You know nothing, yet think you know everything,” she said to her rude companion. But still, she would meet him at 8 under the Kafka sign.