Breakfast in Paris

Originally Published by by 10X10 (2025)

This was the fourth boulangerie Marc had been to, and the only one open. Was it a Feast day he was unaware of, some bank holiday he’d forgotten about? 

The queue was enormous. He was sweating. He was late. A horrible muggy feeling enveloped him. The air felt hot and thick and all encompassing, a million people’s mutual breath slowly being recycled. Marc hadn’t showered yet and felt yesterday’s socks clinging to his sweaty feet. He felt itchy.

He checked his watch. Today was the day he was going to see her; the first time since the divorce. He’d had it in the calendar for weeks. She was still the love of his life. Still, always. And, Marc well knew, she had specific tastes. A pain au chocolat wasn’t going to cut it. She didn’t like madeleines. Hence why he would buy up half the shop if he ever got to the front - best to keep on the safe side. Marc wanted everything to be just as she liked it. 

Breakfast finally in hand, he meandered home through the tourists. He pushed through the overweight Americans as they halted inexplicably in the street to take photos of the Moulin Rouge.

He was nervous. Six floors with no lift, he’d be a sweaty mess by the time he got to his door. He wondered if she was still as beautiful as he remembered. More so now, surely. How long had it been? He wasn’t sure. Too long anyway. 

To his surprise, as he climbed the final steps, he saw she was there already, waiting. Sitting politely on his step, drumming a beat with her little ladybird light up shoes. She beamed at him, hopped up and launched herself into his arms, attacking him with little pecking kisses on his cheeks, complaining in a giggling way about his stubble. His hedgehog, she called it.

Inside, Totally Spies! backpack on the floor, Bratz doll tightly under one arm, they maneuvered to Marc’s little terrace for breakfast. Orange juice - with bits - bread and butter and jam, Coco Pops, and, finally, the mountain of pastries. Eclairs, cakes, citron tarts, pastries galore. Enough sugar to fuel a riot at a nursery. They were laid dramatically in front of her like a sacrificial offering. She bit into the pastry and beamed across the little table. Marc beamed back.

He thought of lighting a cigarette, adding another stub to the pile in the ashtray between them. He’d been smoking a lot lately, close to two packs a day. He decided not to set a bad example. He didn’t need them with Marie here anyway. He leaned back, feeling the heat from the chair burn into his back slightly. The stress from the morning began to recede. He breathed deeply. Contentedly. 

Marie went on munching away and Marc leaned back further, accepting the warmth of the chair. He closed his eyes and let the late morning sun wash over him and into him.

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