She awakes to the gleaming luminosity; sunshine filling every inch of the room and piercing through her eyelids. Last night's Bordeaux creating a faint, dull ache at the base of her skull.
Le café est nécessaire. Throwing an oversized jumper over her naked form, she treads barefoot into the kitchen and whirs the coffee machine into action whilst picking at a croissant purchased yesterday from the pâtisserie. The previous night's dinner at Chez L’Ami Jean had been delightfully indulgent; mackerel in leek vinaigrette and, following encouragement from the chef, a legendary rice pudding accompanied by salted butter caramel and crunch meringues. The memory alone stirs her salivary glands as she uncomfortably fiddles with the overly exuberant coffee machine, glad of small mercies when the espresso is safely within the china cup. Opening the doors onto the balcony, the morning air landing on her bare legs and trembling its way underneath her jumper as she shivers, she holds the coffee in her hands and looks out onto her weekend paradise; cafe terraces, limestone buildings and nattily dressed locals creating a timeless tableau like a black-and-white Robert Doisneau photo. The coffee slides down her throat like a scorching waterfall as she recalls the day before - watching Parisians uncommonly queuing for bread at Le Comptoir du Relais, snatching one of the coveted seats at Café de Flore and watching the crowds bustle by, sip, puff and pontificate, hurried waiters weaving and wending, the sublime smell of onion galettes frying, baskets of fresh herbs and lettuces, smiles from men as she fumbles through their compliments.. The faint ache evaporates in the morning sun, creating space for today's schedule; a trip to Le Marché Couvert to scoop up saucisson and perhaps a few of those macaroons that look too pretty to consume, visits to the Cartier Fondation and Fondation Henri Cartier-Bresson providing just the right dose of familiar, a bite to eat whilst watching coiffed regulars kiss-kiss the maître d’hôtel. Not forgetting the trip to the Eiffel Towel during l'heure bleue to see the whole city suffused in an ethereal light. She smiles at her day ahead as though it's a slowly revealing gift; running her fingers along her thigh in absent minded bliss. One more coffee, she thinks, as she lazily makes the short distance back to the kitchen.
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AuthorThe tornado of roses, with all the chaos and less of the beauty.. Archives
December 2017
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