The Last Day of the Old World

It's our own fault. We assume the saturated teabag and lonesome magazine is a sign of an abandoned table. She appears and we tell her two cappuccinos. She pretends she doesn't hear and becomes reacquainted with her seat. She insists we stay and partake in a disjointed dialogue concerning our travels in Asia. She tells us she knows why we are here. She is happy we are here. We are flattered. She asks if we preach door to door. Our brows furrow towards one another. Did we hear correctly. Has her English failed her. "Then what do you do?" she asks after we admit preaching isn't a particular pastime of ours. An awkward "I dunno" is met with uninterrupted laughter that seems to go on for ten minutes and probably goes on for ten minutes. She throws back her head. Her tongue is big and yellow. I count fillings. Passers-by assume we are old friends talking about that time Steve put a wig on the dog. We squirm in our seats. The laughter stops as abruptly as it started. I make a beeline for the waitress. She makes a beeline for Caroline's inner German. She locks eyes. How can we spread the word of our Lord without German? Caroline manages a hasty "tschuss". We quicken our step. We don't look back. The calls of "don't leave me, friends" not fading soon enough.