"Paris is the City of Light, the city where the great modernists writers lived and met each other, like James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald and more. It’s the city where Ben Franklin did diplomacy and wrote for more than a decade. It’s the city of Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables and Charles Dickens A Tale of Two Cities."
Timer set for 15 minutes, ready, steady, go:
Every week, on a Monday, at precisely 10 a.m, I come to this café. It's not the best café in Monmarte, and it does't serve the best coffee, but I just love to be here. The comfortable atmosphere, the smell of cafe au lait and croissant, the spotted tableclothes and iron tables and chairs. It's all typically Parisienne, and quite compelling. The most compelling thing though, is him.
I imagine that he would be like the first bite of buttery soft croissant with a dark pinch of chocolate right at the heart.
Short, darkly, curling hair and blue, blue eyes like the sky on a June day. A patrician nose and the most full, and I have to say darkly tempting lips. Oh, and did I mention that behind. Very smart, very tight, very attractive pulling over that peach, that I would just love to run my hands over.
I'm not some oddball, weirdo creep, really I'm not. I just love him. He makes my heart trip and bump along like a brook, and the worst thing about all of this is that he has no idea. No idea at all that I feel that way.
As I stutter my way through a sentence asking for order, he smiles ... those baby blues all crinkly at the corners, and I'm rewarded with a brief glimpse of perfect white teeth. Oh, what it must feel like to have those bite down on me like the croissants I love so much, and scrap their way along my arm, and then nibble right back up again.
I sometimes like to imagine that he keeps that smile just for me, and then pops into a jar when I'm not around.
Poor delusional old woman that I am, I know that's not really the case. I duck down my head, and carry on reading my book.
He places my cup carefully in front of me, and next to it the croissant. Today though, it's not the usual one, it's a heart. Maybe, just maybe he's trying to tell me something too.
© Kay Bolton
Perfect timing, 3 seconds left on the clock - I enjoyed that. I know that it needs editing, but as a start it's quite nice.
If you get time, have a go at The Write Practice, it's great fun.