Hear Us Roar | Anthology

Divine Intervention by @ZaviJames

Nine months - that's how long it had been since I'd been home. Nine months ago, in a haze of anger, witnessed by the rest of my colleagues thanks to the floor to ceiling glass that made up one side of the office, I had told my boss just where he could stick his job before being escorted out of the building by security.

I had worked in the same law firm since graduation. I had given them nearly a decade of my life but was being passed up for promotion because their loyalty lay with the boy's club. I was just a pretty face they thought they could pay off with a measly, and I mean measly, increase in my wage and an extra week of holiday. The rage was so intense that black spots had flooded my vision.

And the fury didn't dissipate until I got on a plane and left. I had declined my Dad's offer of taking a gap year when I was 18, wanting too badly to get into university and start my professional life. Now, I couldn't help but feel like I had missed out on a pivotal part of my life. Instead of discovering myself and being wild, I'd slogged my guts out and all it had gotten me was a patronising pat on the back.

The last nine months had seen me hop from country to country trying to figure out just what would fill the giant, gaping chasm that had ruptured my soul.

"Latte, s'il vous plaît. Is the terrace open today?" I asked as I got the counter in the cafe. The smell of coffee wrapped itself around my senses and coaxed the slumbering part of my brain further down the evolutionary timeline.

"Non, mademoiselle."

"Of course not," I muttered under my breath. I was handed my drink and slipped past the tables towards the windows at the front of the cafe to settle there.

It was the middle of October and early on a Sunday morning, which meant that the usual bustling cafe was quieter than usual. That was the whole reason I had dragged myself out of the apartment. A quiet morning of trying to sort my head out before the week began. The weather had taken a turn for the worse and I was the only one occupying the space as my coffee cooled in its mug. I took a deep drink and shuddered. It always failed to compare to Italy, and I found myself considering cutting my stay in France short just to continue my search in Sicily again.

But what exactly was I looking for?

It had taken leaving home for me to realise that I woke up every morning with a deep sense of dread and returned home with a deep sense of relief. Days had blended into months and my body uncoiled and released the tension it held. I slept easier, walked taller, laughed more. I felt like I was on the cusp of something, but I couldn't decipher what and it was beginning to frustrate me. I was so used to having the answers and now all I had was blanks.

The high-pitched cry of a baby cut through my thoughts and I turned my head towards the sound. The table next to mine had been occupied while I was tangled in the mess, I called my life. A blonde-haired man with a neat, trimmed beard cradled a baby in his arms speaking in soft tones.

He looked up, blue eyes catching my own, and I felt my cheeks burn with his gaze. His skin held the remnants of a warm Parisienne summer, making his fair hair stand out. My mouth ran dry.

"Désolé du dérangement," he said, and I blink a few times only understanding the first word of the sentence. The accent and language were definitely a giant pull for me to venture into France, but I still missed the coffee in Italy.

"I'm sorry. I'm not fluent in French," I responded, mentally kicking myself for not brushing up before the move.

"I said," he started again, his voice thick with accent. "I'm sorry for the disturbance. My son seems to have no care for the typical quiet Sunday morning rules." The man glanced down at the baby in his arms who was still exercising his lungs with wild abandon. "Actually, I'm certain any quiet morning rules don't apply to him."