VERA
_
❝BOYS AINT' SHIZ,❞ Toni says, walking into the room.
Her lack of foul language takes a shred of passion away from her words, but I give it a pass, because I've known her long enough to know she hates bad language—which is understandable in her case. Bad words make my mouth feel dirty, she'd say, and I like having a clean mouth. I didn't press for more information, although she seemed happy to talk about it for another hour.
When I returned from the basement of Plaisirs De Bella's, I was met with the tidbit of information that Timothée had disappeared out the front door long before I returned. Which sucked. But, according to Bella, it's not the first time he's climbed in through the basement, and he always leaves a euro in the tip jar to account for whatever he took.
That may have cleared him for being a thief, but I still didn't appreciate the abrupt cold-shoulder he gave me when he left.
"To be fair," I mumbled, sinking into my chair, "I did accuse him of being a thief."
Toni looked offended. "There is no 'to be fair', he literally climbed through a window."
"Which he does a lot, apparently."
"And to be fair, you didn't know that, so he shouldn't have left you picking up those apples alone." She frowned. "So, to backtrack what I said, boys ain't shiz, and that's why I only love fictional ones."
The sound of Toni's mug hitting the table was almost deafening (which only highlighted the cramped apartment space we shared), so she mumbled an apology when the noise caused me to flinch.
"So what did he do exactly?" She continued, "like, what did he say that was so cold?"
I shrugged, "He didn't say anything, to be exact, but I felt the vibe in the room."
Toni frowned. "The vibe?"
"The vibe. He got really close to me at the end, and got in my face, and told me he was leaving."
"Sounds like harassment."
"No, it wasn't," I sighed, rubbing my face with my palms. I didn't know how to describe the situation entirely, because I couldn't remember much of it, other than the way his smug look disappeared into offense when I called him a thief. "But he seemed so confident before, and then I threatened to hit him with a bread loaf, and...jeez, Toni, I don't know what the hell happened."
She took a sip out of her mug—Earl Grey tea, her usual. "You never do."
"Excuse me?"
"I've witnessed this a million times, Vera," she noted, "you see a cute guy, assume all these wonderful things about him, and then you try to push out the disappointment of your assumptions being wrong and pretend like you forgot."
"I don't do that."
"You do."
I do.
Call it the writer in me, or something, because I over dramatise the little things and pretend like I'm living in a book-world where everything has a happy ending. But what was I expecting? I wouldn't know a happy ending unless it hit me in the face, and I can't even write at the moment.
Thank you, Toni, for calling me out.
"Life's a ditch," she said, purposely avoiding another cuss word, "don't let this bakery boy ruin your day."
I groaned. "But he's so pretty..."
"Pretty rude, if you ask me."
"And his eyes..."
"Are probably filled with dark secrets you don't want to know about," she said. I opened my mouth to respond, but she reached over the table, shoving her finger against my lips harshly. I resisted the urge to swat it away. "I get that he's pretty, but don't go writing a romance novel about him."
I laughed weakly, "I can't even write."
"If you could, you'd be spouting out essays about the green of his eyes, or the way his French accent sounds calming, or the way his butt sways side-to-side as he walks."
"I never said anything about his butt!" I hissed, doubling back into my chair, "ew!"
"Don't ew me, Vera."
"You literally just scolded me for talking about his looks, and then you added in a totally irrelevant comment about his rear-end."
She smirked. "I did."
"You haven't even seen him in person!"
"You underestimate me, Vera. It seems you've forgotten that your best friend is a raging bisexual who's seen plenty of pretty men," she yawned, picking up her mug again, "it's like a sixth-sense to know he has at least some cake."
"I'm not talking to you," I whined, scrambling out of my chair, "this conversation is over."
Toni's giggles were drowned out when I lunged into my bed, shoving my face into my pillow case as I let out a scream. Boys, boys, boys, boys—they all sucked. Well, not all of them, but yeah, most of them.
I had a specific one in mind.
➢
TIMOTHÉE WALKED into the bakery an hour before it opened, a choir of angels singing as soon as he entered.
Okay, fine, there weren't choirs of angels, but that's besides the point. What I really mean to say is: Timothée walked into the bakery, looking just as beautiful as usual. I wish I could hold that sentence to him without doubt, but unfortunately that idea is tarnished with the fact that he left me to clean up those stupid apples by myself.
So I didn't say a word as he made his usual greetings to Bella, focused on the tray of Madeleines I was placing into the glass display. We weren't supposed to be open yet, but he walked in anyways—well aware of the fact that Bella never locks the door when she's inside.
He was wearing the same sunglasses as usual, balanced loosely on the bridge of his nose, but today he seemed to find solace in simplicity, wearing a white-tee, jean jacket, and tapered grey pants (not that I was looking at him, of course). My stubborn complex needed to shine through.
So even as he slid down his black frames to look at me, I focused on the madeleines. Keeping them in neat rows, making them look desirable, and tapping the metal tongs on the pan to knock off the crumbs. He was converged in his conversation with Bella now, but I could feel his glances flutter back towards me in between inaudible sentences.
If I could get a peek into his mind, I was almost certain it was filled with thoughts of disdain. I could imagine it now, even as I dropped the pan into the sink.
There's the idiot girl, he'd think (in French), she accused me of stealing, and made a fool of herself. I'm surprised she didn't quit her job out of sheer embarrassment. Maybe I should tell Bella to fire her, since I clearly know Bella and can go climbing through her basement windows without question...
...what am I doing?
If only I could somehow channel my inner rants into my own writing, because my mind seems to derive copious amounts of inspiration when it comes to my own disparities—which is just a fancy way of admitting that I'm a mess.
"Vera," Bella's voice trailed off, bringing me back into the present, "are you going to wash the pan, or just stare at it?"
I felt my cheeks flush, ignoring the quiet snickering from the boy on the other side of the counter. "Désolée, I must have zoned out."
The woman didn't seem to bother for my excuses, waving her hand to swat me back to washing and busying herself with the latte machine. If I wasn't so bent on ignoring a certain someone, I might have taken the glare Bella sent to the boy into more consideration, but I was focused on the soap suds sliding down my hands at the present moment.
Scrubbing a pan to clean perfection was an easy task, given it was as flat as a board, but this certain pan was much, much, much harder to clean. Not because of the pan itself, but because I was tasked with the knowledge that 'someone' was pacing towards my side of the shop, unsure intentions on their mind.
Timothée leaned against the counter, thumbing his bottom lip out of the corner of my eye, seemingly waiting to notice if I'd say anything. I didn't. So then, to top it all off, he decided to do the most unfair, annoying, burdening, and frazzling thing—speak.
"Bonjour, Américain," he sang out, his honeyed voice sounding like it was twelve volumes too high in the quiet shop.
I pressed my lips into a thin line, making a point not to face him. I turned my back completely towards him, pressing my soapy sponge harder into the surface of the pan. It wasn't that I didn't want to talk to him, it was that I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of it. At least this easily, anyways.
"Oh, so she doesn't speak today," Timothée muttered to himself, although it was clear I was meant to hear it. He faked a sigh, "too busy with the dishes, hm?"
That made me scrub harder, my eyes narrowed into the sink.
"Must be boring," he said.
I flicked a sud off my fingertip.
"And an awful waste of time."
I set down my sponge.
"Pity."
Hearing someone give false sympathy—someone who made me feel like an utter fool yesterday, as well—was so backhanded, it made me break my petty wall to shoot a response back. My words socked him in the face with surprise.
"For your information, I enjoy cleaning," I hissed, spinning around.
A few strands of hair got in my eyes as I did so, but I brushed them away as I stared down my opponent. He was pressed up against the counter, his curly, brown hair tucked behind his ears in a way that failed to press them down. But he didn't seem to mind his wild locks, he seemed more interested in my act of giving in.
"So she speaks!" He exclaimed sarcastically, a grin on his lips, "and she seems to like cleaning, hm?"
I gave him a pointed look of distaste, "didn't you hear what I said?"
If one hadn't been humiliated in the basement of their own work, they might have thought I was being excessively petty. And yes, I was, I'm not ashamed to admit it. Maybe it gave me a slight sense of validation as well. This boy—this brunet example of beauty, who could so much as glance in someone's direction and have them swooning—couldn't easily persuade me.
"Every word," he smirked, cocking a brow, "did you enjoy cleaning those apples off the floor then?"
Jerk.
"Listen, I'm only kidding you," he chuckled under his breath, musing at a joke only he seemed to find funny. He lowered his hand from where it lay limply by his chin, bringing it against the counter to tap on it. "I've been meaning to apologize."
I crossed my arms against my chest. "You've been meaning to, or you will?"
"Depends on whether or not you'll forgive me," he simpered.
I pretended to think about it, but didn't dwell for long. Bella was off cleaning the tables outside, and wouldn't hear our conversation, but I still felt like any exchange of words with him was too private to discuss out loud. Maybe it was because he could easily brush me off again and I wanted to spare myself from any more humility. Or maybe it was selfishness—someone as resplendent as him was making an effort to talk to me, and I reveled in it.
So, I shrugged. "Depends on whether or not you're worth forgiving."
Timothée didn't want to play games anymore, pressing the pads of his fingertips into the glass counter, and straightening his posture. I worried I'd have to clean off smudges later.
"Here's the deal," he said, in his annoyingly posh accent, beginning to spout off his ideas, "you're new to Paris, hm?"
I nodded, and he continued.
"I doubt you know any more about my city than they tell you on your tourist blogs or whatever..." he trailed off, almost muttering the last bit to himself. Turning his focus back to me, he flashed me an expression that seemed far too suspicious to be of any good-heartedness, "so in exchange for forgiveness, I'll give you a deeper look at my city."
"You'd do all that over spilled apples?" I questioned askance.
Timothée shrugged.
"Maybe I have an Icarus complex," he noted, "or maybe I just remembered you have that little book of yours that you're writing. About Paris, right?"
"I'm surprised you remembered."
"Ouais, 'not so much of a writer as you are writing', I haven't forgotten."
I didn't know what to say to that, shocked he actually listened to what I had to say the first time we met. He was often flaunting his self-deemed superiority over me unconsciously, so I wouldn't have been surprised if he hadn't bothered to pay attention, but apparently he did.
Apparently.
"It's a one time offer, American," he said, awaiting a response, "you have three seconds."
And then he started to count.
"Un."
Consider the possibilities, Vera, you're literally on a timer! Use your brain! Remember the fact that he did act like a jerk, and it most likely wasn't a one time thing, and that's screaming 'RED FLAG! RED FLAG! RED FLAG!' louder then a walkman on full blast. It's easy, politely decline.
"Deux."
But he has a point...I haven't had much time to look around Paris, and even if I did, what would I know about it? I'm here to write a love story set in the City of Love, and I have no idea about writing about a place I've got no idea about. This is the thing I've been waiting for! Inspiration, and he was handing it to me on a platter at this very moment.
"Troi."
Let's hope there's not a catch.
"Fine," I said, sticking out my hand, "it's a deal."
Timothée smirked, taking my hand into his slender fingers, and giving it a loose shake. But as I pulled away, his grip tightened, tugging my hand up towards his lips, where he pressed a soft kiss onto the back of my hand.
I almost gasped at the feeling, goosebumps raising up the skin of my arms, and I mentally thanked myself for wearing a long-sleeved shirt today.
"I'll be waiting," he grinned, letting go of my hand, and walking towards the door, "au revoir, chérie."
I couldn't even fathom a response.