Sunday, February 15, 2015


I lift the pillowy dough onto the cookie sheet while you taste the coffee I made for you. "These should be ready in about 15 minutes." You nod, surveying my croissant operation. You reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, lingering to caress my cheek. You wouldn't be so impressed if you knew I bought the frozen dough from the grocery store yesterday. Best thing since sliced bread - just leave out overnight to thaw and proof. And delicious!

The oven light goes off, so I scoot the cookie sheet in and set the timer. I bring out butter and cut some into a ramekin, setting it on the stove top to soften. You gather me up, holding your body against mine. Your nose is buried in my hair. I try to remember when I last washed it. Does it smell good, I wonder? "I don't know what I like best," you whisper, "the way you look, the way you smell, or the way you taste."

Months later, after I've left you, I still have to admit that your line, which you may or may not have said to dozens of women before me, is still the best I've ever heard. I smile when I think of it, which is every time I bite into a freshly baked croissant, forever linked to the feel of your beard scratching my cheek and to the scent of coffee on your sweet lips.

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