Breakfast in Paris
I.
As I awoke from a deep
and confused slumber,
ten time zones ahead
of my circadian rhythm,
I panicked when I realized
my two feline overlords
were absent. As the sun rose,
my shabby spartan room,
with its worn brown furniture
and orange accents,
became a flood of indigo flame,
and the parking lot outside
my apartment window
was replaced with
a blue-tinged brick courtyard.
That’s the secret
of the City of Light;
the pure cobalt
that outlines everything.
II.
After a quick shower
and slapdash toilette,
I made my way down
five flights of carpeted stairs
made flat by many
confused tourists
in search of breakfast.
As my feet hit the first floor,
I smelled it; the lure of
of strong black coffee,
and warm croissants
fresh from the oven.
My stomach growled
as my senses triangulated
on the dining area,
where a half dozen
other pilgrims like myself
were greeted by the sight
of Johan, the quiet concierge
who set out pots of coffee
around a warm pile
of the ubiquitous pastry
we’d heard so much about.
Before I knew it,
I found myself seated
on a wooden bench,
coffee cup in hand.
As I reached for
a small creamer of milk,
I glanced at the others
who’d seated themselves,
and marveled at how quiet
we all were, but unsure
of what etiquette to employ,
in a moment where
the simple pleasure
of coffee and pastry
would be our first meal.
And yet, silence was
the agreed upon option
as we savored and devoured
the bitter and sweet,
hot and cold,
love and sadness.
I tried to minimize the mess
as I took a bite of croissant
with melted butter.
I felt the eyes of someone
upon me; an elderly nun,
veil and habit neatly pressed
by an iron dedicated
to right angles,
who smiled as she divined
this was my first time
among strangers, and
I willingly put aside
my taciturn visage for her.
I smiled, and tipped my coffee cup
to her in silent thanks.
III.
The memory resurfaced
as I woke to find
my current feline overlord
curled up next to me.
At 5:39 am, I caught a glimpse
of that predawn blue
that reminded me
of the moment when
I was half a world away,
and for a few days
I didn’t have to
punch a clock,
greet sullen coworkers
with a fake smile,
or count down the minutes
until lunchtime.
I could smell the coffee,
taste the fresh butter,
and feel the flakes
of a croissant fall
between my fingers
onto a warm plate.
In that moment,
I felt the possibility
of everything.
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