April Foolishness: Latté

Something about the way the cinnamon atop her morning latté’s foam was making Gina tear up. Maybe she was just homesick, missing her cat and boyfriend back in The Bronx. Maybe it was the way the Parisian light never seemed to not be perfect, beckoning her to photograph and Instagram every morsel.

Maybe it was the fact that she still hadn’t found Lemieux’s secret recipe, and her boss was definitely going to kill her.

Not to mention the bloggers back home that were waiting to hear all about her triumphant return from her top secret mission.

She couldn’t come back empty-handed. And she couldn’t risk ending up in a French prison, either.

Her flight out was this Friday at noon. It was already Thursday.

“Now or never,” she muttered under her breath. “Do or die.”

“Seize the day,” said a voice to her left.

She turned to see a young man in a crisp blue Oxford shirt, khaki pants, and a keffiyeh sipping an espresso next to her. He winked, then smiled.

“You sounded like you needed a third phrase to pump you up,” he added.

“Oh… yes,” she replied.

“What is so ‘do or die,’ then, mademoiselle?” he inquired.

Gathering her wits about her, she laughed and said, “Oh, you know. This exam coming up… the usual.”

He nodded and pondered this statement for a moment, eyeing her decidedly non-university attire, before choosing his words carefully.

“I’m a cab driver… if you ever need a ride, please call me.” He produced a card from his shirt pocket, and held it out to her.

To Gina’s surprise, she found herself accepting the card. There was something about his liquid caramel eyes that gave her a fluttering feeling inside. “Stop it,” she tried to tell herself. “You don’t have time for this.”

Instead, she glanced down at the card to read his name.

“Thank you, Layth.”

He took a final swig of his espresso, set the cup down on the counter, and dashed out of the café.

Gina’s heart beat even faster once he was gone, picturing their bodies together in the back seat of his cab. Her cheeks flushed, thinking about his full lips pressed against her own. When she finally snapped back from her daydream, her watch read 10:04.

“Showtime,” she whispered, and slipped out the back door into the cobble-stoned alley.

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