As the last few crumbs disappeared from my saucer, and the first few people began to spark the sleepy cobblestone streets, I would put mind to ink, and ink to paper, and write. I’m an author, you see.
Self-proclaimed, of course. I haven’t quite managed to publish any of my works as of now, nor have I made a single Euro off of my writing. But as Fleur would say, “the most real reality is the one we live in our beans.” Or maybe it was “dreams.” But either way, the words clinging onto her voice would lightly caress my ear buds. Only from Fleur, does content matter not. But this story is the one; I get an uncontrollable twitch in my left ring finger when I write something this timeless, and I had been unable to hold that finger still for the past six months. Writer’s intuition. Good thing I’m right-handed.
I had never been able to simply drink in the sensory pleasures that permeated from every aspect of the café, no, from Paris as a whole. The closest I had gotten was drinking a cup of Fleur’s Café Noisette, which is actually exceedingly close. Never before had I truly smelled the flowers simply to smell the flowers, never before had I mulled in the standard café commotion: the laughter, the paper jostling, the clatter of dishes, and actually heard it. Never before had I truly even seen Fleur as I saw her now. The way her bronze locks played a game of tag around her shoulders. The way her high cheek bones acted as guides to draw attention and allure to her marbled silver eyes and delicate eyelashes. The way her creased collarbones folded her summer dress ever so snugly to her slender form, all the way down to her coquettish ankle bracelet.
And so, I broke my compromise and allowed for a moment of pure indulgence in dedication to that moment. And once that moment was over, I took another. Then I made my way homeward through the lovely Parisian roads, and the lovely Parisian people.
I live just two blocks down Rue la Verrier from Fleur’s café. It only takes me fifteen minutes walking that way. In fact on weekends when she closes late, I can see the flickering lamps atop the fence that encompasses the terrace, smell the late night espresso shots and musky cigar smoke, and hear the busking musicians. Accordions, flutes, keyboards, every instrument imaginable has been played on that corner. I can even taste the romance in the air. Yes, Fleur’s was certainly a place of splendor.
But I usually take the longer way home from the café. This way I can stop by my fiancé’s house en route. I know what you’re thinking, but hey, vive la Paris.
à suivre, to be continued