Chapter 3
The last time she was here, it was a lot less crowded. There was a French chanson playing in the background and only four people working the counter. But today, it’s like she’s been transported to a different region in the world as Spanish folk music sound to a whole team of workers moving about with sweat on their brows.
She tries to locate an empty seat in the bakery but notices that the two patrons here before her were still standing in the corner eating their pastries like watchdogs on the lookout for the next person to leave their seat.
Clarke feels a slight tug at her sleeve.
“I was actually leaving.” The elderly woman with what appears to be ageless blue eyes smiles up at her from her table.
“Thank you.” She gently squeezes the woman’s hand, somehow feeling a close bond to her already.
“Hey!”
Clarke turns to the sound of the familiar voice, somehow certain that it was calling for her. And the smell of roses greets her before those flecks of green do.
“Hi!” A hand extends between them, and there is a flash of amusement that crosses the other woman’s nice features before she takes Clarke’s hand.
“After our near death experience together, I would have expected something less formal,” the woman teases and Clarke winces internally at the formality she’s just displayed.
“I’m glad to see that you’re still in one piece.”
“Partly thanks to you.”
The woman releases her grip to allow Clarke the chance to dig in her bag.
“So, here’s your phone.”
“Right. Thanks.” The woman stares down at it, like it is an afterthought, entirely. “Let me get you a pastry or something to thank you for making the trip out here.”
“It’s fine. After all, you did pay for my ride. Consider us even.”
“What if I said that I insist?” The woman winks at Clarke, and somewhere between the savory scent of fresh bread and traditional European music, Clarke admits to herself that she might be slightly charmed.
She finally takes the empty seat kindly left to her and watches the backside of the woman as she makes her way to counter. The sight of a loose braid in the back of her hair strikes a familiar chord inside of her, but Clarke can’t quite put a name to the vague feeling.
“No courtesy at all.”
Her focus suddenly shifts to the two disgruntled men moving past her table, speaking beneath their breath but loud enough so that Clarke could hear their displeasure of her.
She thinks about calling them back and relinquishing her seat, but the sight of a beautiful woman with a mischievous smile walking back in her direction distracts her.
“What’s that?” She points to the plate in the woman’s hand.
She sets it down on the table. “An éclair.”
“Ah.” The pastry with chocolate icing on top isn’t exactly the meal she was hoping for after skipping lunch, but she didn’t think her empty stomach was in much of a state to discriminate any kind of food. She slowly picks it up with two fingers, trying her best not to devour the entire thing like a barbarian in front of the woman.
“What are you doing?” An amused smirk draws at the woman’s lips.
“Eating the éclair?”
“That’s not how to properly eat an éclair.”
“No?”
“No. Let me show you.” She takes one glance around the room and it’s like something dawns on her. “Need more chairs.”
“Here.” Clarke scooches to the edge of her seat to make some room for the woman to sit down beside her. The tip of the woman’s eyebrows scrunch together for a brief moment under the weight of the seemingly innocuous invitation before the same smirk reappears and she obliges.
It’s a tad uncomfortable to sit this way. Only half of her body is being supported by the seat while the other half is trying to stay in its own lane because Clarke has a feeling that the woman at the next table did not want to be bothered by two grown women sharing a seat in a crowded bakery. And, yet, this makes Clarke want to giggle even more.
“So, you’re actually supposed to cut it into pieces with a fork and knife.” She demonstrates with the utensils in her hands.
“Why? Seems a bit pretentious to me.”
“It’s less messy this way. The filling doesn’t squeeze out. You would have created a big mess with the way you were ready to devour it.”
The woman slides the plate over to Clarke and tells her to try it.
“May I use my fingers to do this, my lady?” They both burst out into a fit of giggles at the sexual innuendo that would have been uncomfortable in any other circumstance, and the agitated woman next to them mutters something to the effect of bunch of lesbians.
Clarke clears her throat and straightens up her back in the most posh way she knows how to before she takes one bite of the eclair.
And it is worth it.
She closes her eyes and lets out a satisfied “Mhmmm.”
That’s why she doesn’t notice the twinkle in the other woman’s eyes.
“You should try our blueberry scone if you like this. It’s the best thing on our menu.”
“Really?” Clarke finally returns from her daydream state to ask, trying her best to hold back on telling the woman that she’s tried the blueberry scone before, and it was nothing to write home about. But, this éclair, this thing cut into tiny pieces that she was somehow talked into eating while half of her leg was falling asleep, is utterly magnificent.
“You know---“
Beep.
Clarke begrudgingly reaches for the device at her waistband that’s just interrupted a peculiarly sweet moment between her and the woman.
“Duty calls,” she stares down at the lighted screen.
They both stand from the seat in unison, as if some spell’s been broken. The woman lends out her hand this time and Clarke takes it even though she wants to stay a bit longer for the coffee --- for anything if it means that she’ll have to share her seat with a woman that smells even more wonderful than she looks.
“Well, once again, thank you for returning my phone.”
“No problem.”
“Take care, then.” The woman shoves her hands in her pockets and does this cute thing with her foot. And it takes all the willpower Clarke has to say goodbye.
As she turns around and heads for the exit, the smell of roses heavy on her mind, Clarke wonders if she would ever get to see this woman again. If she should hail the next reckless taxicab she sees flying down the street or visit this bakery one more time at the off chance of running into her a second time.
“Lexa.”
An unfamiliar voice from behind her calls out that name, and it stops Clarke in her tracks momentarily. She stares down at the floor and deliberates on turning around, on seeing her Kit Kat bar again, but the voice of reason inside her head tells her to continue walking ahead because disappointment is not a feeling worth revisiting.
That is, until she hears a familiar voice answer to that name.