WWII Era. Imogen owns a Bakery her American father had left for her in Paris, her mother's home land. All she wishes to do is survive the war and the Occupation. She can't do that if the SS Captain insists on visiting her store everyday.
He may be...
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We would meet in the dead of night- share touches and smiles. It would always end with him sleeping in my bed for the night; nothing would happen except for the kissing and caressing. I had grown accustomed to waking up beside him and falling to sleep next to him. When we would see each other in public, it would be hard not to give in to the need to feel his fingers against my skin.
I woke up today in a better mood than usual. I was happy. The sun shone through the thick blinds, and I admired the white spillage of snow that gathered onto Paris. It was bright, and I could see a few people trudging through the ankle-deep cold. I needed to go to the market since I was low on tea and coffee. Scratch that- I didn't have anymore. My cupboard was empty.
I quickly undressed, glad I had taken my bath the night before- I would freeze now since the water heater decided to break last night after sitting in the tub. I placed a headband on my unruly curls and did the usual routine for my makeup. I opted for my favorite pair of trousers. They were soft and deep burgundy with two buttons that adorned my hip beautifully. I also slipped on a light brown knit sweater with a back, white and teal pattern across the bodice.
I slipped my feet into a pair of brown leather booties with thick wool socks. I grabbed a thick brown coat with a scarf, hat, and leather gloves. My purse hung on my arm as I held my coin purse and basket. With one last check, I was out the door. My back was turned to the wind as I locked the door. The minute I turned around, the cold chill slapped me hard in the face; it stung, and my eyes watered. I sucked in the cold air and gritted my teeth. God, that was cold. I need to hurry before I freeze.
The ground was slick with ice, and the snow permeated through my boots. I could feel wet with every step. Not many people were left on the streets of Paris; the cold may have run them home. I gritted my teeth as a chill slid between my legs. I was glad I wore trousers.
The market was barren. The vendor wasn't even there. How am I to pay for this? I wondered, casually glancing at the wool blankets and the bags of hot chocolate. The wind was picking up, and snow was beginning to fall. No one was out, except for the famous drunk Marty, who was swaying at the end of the table.
He was eying the thick wool blanket I now had in my hands. Marty was a lovely man; once, when I had too many bags of groceries, he helped me carry them in. I know I shouldn't have been, but I was amazed that he hadn't taken anything. He had ducked his head and turned to leave, but I grabbed the bag of extra's I had gathered and handed them to him.
He was surprised but gladly took them. I had learned his full name was Martin Shew, and he never liked being called Marty, said it reminded him of his father.
I held the wool out to him. He looked at me, his eyebrows lifting in surprise before dropping, "I can't pay for that," His voice was hoarse.
