mardi 15:23
Les Rosiers was the name of the café Marcelle Vaugrenard worked at.
It was a low-key café in the city of Paris, hidden off in an alleyway in the sixteenth arrondissement with a few tables outside. Translating into the rosebushes, it was a food favorite of many native Parisians. Les Rosiers was sometimes mentioned as a must try for anyone visiting the city, coming up in the first page of a Yelp search.
And it was the one job Marcelle hadn't been fired from during her time here in Paris. Well, that was only because they didn't have enough servers, so they just had to keep her.
If you asked her, she wouldn't say that her time working at Les Rosiers was all fun and rainbows. Actually, it was quite the opposite.
She absolutely despised waking up early in the morning to look somewhat decent for a job she didn't even like in the slightest. It reminded her of school—something she also wasn't very fond of. But it wasn't like she had a choice. It was already difficult enough to find a job when she first moved to Paris, she could only imagine the trouble it was to find work now.
Maybe Marcelle was exaggerating about how much she hated working here because right now, it actually wasn't that bad.
It was three in the afternoon, and Marcelle sat behind the counter waiting for a customer to come in—which didn't seem likely.
"Slow day today," Yvonne commented, playing with a pen as she leaned by the counter. "Usually, we'd have our hands full by now."
Marcelle let out a breathy laugh. "It's three o'clock on a Tuesday, Yvonne. Some people don't have the time to stop and eat a café." Even on weekdays, Les Rosiers would be busy with servers flying out of the kitchen with plates in their hands. "It's good we don't have a lot of customers. We don't have to rush around while serving seven tables at once."
"You're right. Now, you won't bump into me and drop two plates on the floor."
"That was one time!" She stood up, laughing.
Despite it being a three o'clock Tuesday afternoon, the café still managed to have a few customers, most of whom sat inside, away from the cold January weather. But some prefer the outside tables—and by some, I mean the one person who just came by and sat themselves outside.
"This one's yours, Marcelle," Yvonne said, making the other turn her head.
"What?" she exclaimed. "I'm not going out there! It's practically freezing out there!"
"I did all the outside orders yesterday, and it was colder." Yvonne handed her the notepad and pen, gently shoving her towards the door.
The twenty-one year old Frenchwoman eventually sucked it up and made her way outside. Just she had said—it was freezing.
January weather in Paris wasn't quite the ideal weather for someone to have a meal outside. It rained last night, and it was forecasted that it would rain yet again tonight. And for Marcelle, she had football training after she got off from work, so she wasn't a big fan of this kind of weather either.
She shivered as the cold air met her skin, even though she was wearing a long sleeved sweater. "Bonjour, vous avez—" She paused as the man removed the menu from his face. "Julian."
He grinned and placed the menu flat on the table. "Nice to see again...Marcelle? Right?"
"Um, do I know you?"
"You don't remember? I'm your new boyfriend," he said, causing Marcelle to promptly roll her eyes, annoyed. "What's a girl like you working at a café? I expected you to be somewhere...not here."
Julian tugged at the sleeve of her white blouse, which was paired with black jeans and an apron to top it all off—the everyday attire Marcelle was required to wear to work. Of course she looked the same to him, she didn't wear makeup, but that didn't matter. What did matter to him was the fact that he met her once again even when he was so sure they were never going to see each other again.
"And I expected you to go after models, not girls like me," she told him, tapping her fingertips on the table. "You know, those lingerie models that live in eighth arrondissement. Speaking of models, there's this blondie that lives a few minutes away—"
"No, I'm serious, Marcelle," Julian laughed. "Why are you working in a café? I thought you played football."
The Frenchwoman stood there, still, for a few moments before realizing what Julian's initial assumption about her was.
The boy thought she was an actual footballer. But, he must be stupid because if she was, she wouldn't have to be working in a café five days a week!
"I don't get money from playing football. I just play the sport. My actual job is working at this café," she explained. "Anyways, are you ready to order?"
He looked stressed out by just looking at a café menu, and she swore she was going to leave him if wasn't going to make up his mind in two seconds. "What's the best thing on the menu?"
"Everything."
He blinked. "Might as well get everything."
Julian must be kidding—he's a terrible liar. But no, he looked serious. "Okay, well," she started writing on her notepad, "have fun with that."
"I was kidding," he said, watching her tear the note and crumble it into the pocket if her apron. "You didn't really think—"
"No, I'm not stupid." She gave him a look, impatient for him to finally make a damn choice. A girl like her didn't have time for guys like Julian, she worked this job for the money, and he definitely was in her way. "Now, can you just make a decision? You're killing me."
Despite trying to adapt to his new life in Paris, the toughest decision Julian had ever had to make so far was what he wanted to eat, and honestly, he felt like a child for taking this long to figure out what he wanted from a café menu. But he had the most beautiful girl in all of Paris serving him today, and he's still determined to get that date.
He wasn't kidding when he said that he really wanted a date with her. He just felt so attracted to her the moment he saw her face, and maybe it was just plain attraction because she was pretty, but he Julian didn't care.
He was going to get that date.
"Why are you working at a café?" he inquired, putting the menu down on the table. "I expected you to not work. Or, be a student."
Marcelle sighed, possibly either from the question itself or the fact that Julian was wasting her time. "Money."
"So you would get together with me if I started giving you money? Consider that done."
"What? No!" she exclaimed, though, it sounded like a plausible plan in the first place. "I work so I can get money to pay off living here in Paris. If it hasn't clicked for you, it's expensive to live here."
It didn't take long for the German to process the information in his head. So Marcelle is in need of money to pay off her living expenses, not the answer I was expecting out of a twenty-one year old who plays football.
She looked to be someone who had money. The kind who came from a pretty rich family who's able to support her up until she's able to do so herself. Julian doesn't know why, but it must have been the way she looked. The face of a rich girl—pretty unforgettable.
"So why did you move here if you can't even afford it?"
She looked at him with a look that clearly said you're an idiot. "Oh, I just wanted to work at a café."
He blinked. "Serious?"
"No, stupid."
"Well, then—why are you here?"
"I could ask the same for you," she sneered, her hands resting on the marble table below. "You looked better in a Schalke uniform."
I agree, he thought, almost forgetting the fact that he played for probably one of the best teams in the Ligue 1. But it wasn't like Julian had a choice.
Well, he did. Either stay unhappy at Wolfsburg or move to Paris and make every fan even angrier (not like he had already).
Chose the latter, obviously.
"Does it ever come across your mind that you may be the most arrogant and beautiful human being on Earth?" he inquired. "Because I'm pretty sure it's obvious."
She snickered. "I think that title belongs to you. Minus the beautiful part. Now, can you make up your goddamn mind? You're wasting my time here."
Looking at the menu for one last time, Julian nodded and placed it on the table. "I'd like one glass of water, un sandwich au jambon and a date with you."
"Tu rigoles? You ordered like the most bland things on the menu. Come on, man. Have some taste for once."
"Just the date, then."
"That will be a get out of this café, please. For here or to-go?"
"You're kidding, right?" He pinched the bridge of his nose. All Julian wanted was a date, just a date! A simple date! But asking the most complex girl ever was so difficult, Julian might turn ninety years old by the time she says yes. "Just one date, Marcelle. That's all I'm asking for."
She crossed her arms and looked to be in deep thought, her thumb on her chin. "Let me think...no."
Marcelle Vaugrenard was obviously a very pretty woman, so it was normal to have guys all around ask her on dates. Then again, she was the same person who convinced her younger brother that he was adopted from Serbia when they were younger. She was the definition of snarky and sassy, but not petty because she was better than that. To have a man with such fame to him ask her on a date, she was going to make sure he had to go through hell to have her say yes.
If Marcelle could be anything, she would be the ultimate French person. The stereotypical rude French person foreigners imagine when they take French in school, learning the ways of how to survive in the Parisian streets.
But she was just like that, and Julian wanted nothing more than to go on an impossible date with her. "Pour l'amour de Dieu, Marcelle. Just give me a chance. Doesn't hurt to change things up." He was practically begging now—a new all time low for Julian Draxler. "You know what, here—" His hand reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, opening it and offering her twenty euros.
Instead of taking it like Julian had thought, Marcelle's jaw dropped open, and she left to go back inside, leaving Julian dumbfounded.
She tossed the notepad and pen on top of the counter where Yvonne stood and crossed her arms. "I'm not taking his order."
The older woman furrowed her eyebrows. "Do you do realize that was Julian Draxler, right? The new—"
"Yes, I know who he is," she interrupted. "I'm just not going to take his order."
"Why not?"
"Because he is the most petty and conceited person I've ever met."
"So? You were exactly the same when you started working here three years ago," Yvonne reasoned, making Marcelle frown. Even if it was true, she never really like it when people brought it up. "Look, I'm just saying, Franck is going to go all hell on you if he finds you refused to serve someone famous."
Marcelle still didn't budge. "Well then, I dare him to fire me. He won't do it."
And that was true. Franck Genest, the café's owner, wouldn't fire Marcelle because he can't. The café doesn't have enough employees to help run the business without chaos, and she's one of the few who's stuck around for a while.
Yvonne took a step to the twenty-one year old and placed a hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring. "Marcelle, just go serve him. I don't want Franck to yell at us if Julian Draxler decides to talk shit about the café because you didn't want to serve him." She handed Marcelle the notepad and pen and shoved her slightly towards the door.
She stood at the door, sighing before going out side once again. If it didn't concern her job, Marcelle wouldn't have gone back out to serve Julian. I mean, he irritated her by constantly asking her on a date when she specifically told him that she wasn't interested in a relationship at the moment.
When he saw that Marcelle had come back out, he greeted her with a smile. "Hey. I thought you left me again like yesterday."
"Well, I actually wanted to leave but whatever. Are you finally ready to order?"
Julian nodded. "I'll the same thing I said earlier—un sandwich au jambon and a date."
She quickly jotted those down onto the notepad. "Un sandwich au jambon and if you want a date with me, Julian, you're going to have to try harder."