“It was a pleasant café, warm and clean and friendly, and I hung up my old waterproof on the coat rack to dry and put my worn and weathered felt hat on the rack above the bench and ordered a café au lait.” – Ernest Hemingway
She breathed in.
The woman was standing in front of the quaint café just around the corner at the Rue Saint Honoré. Her hair was caressed by the wind, her long red coat hugged her until her knees as her boots put her on a pedestal. One mustn’t forget her large round sunglasses—it was a shield.
She breathed out. A steady stream of smoke whirled above her lips.
Her eyes stared at the café’s sign, “Café Flores” it read. She took one step and pierced through the door not looking left nor right but headed straight for the cashier, step by step, the sound of her heels distinct. “I’d like an espresso, please. No—“
“—sugar. As usual.” the young man nodded and smiled.
It was routine. She would be there every single morning on her way to work. Routine is healthy, she would justify. It’s a matter of discipline, focus, and hard work. That’s what she lived by, and that’s the way it’s always been. And besides, a good cigarette and a shot of espresso every morning couldn’t hurt a fly.
“Merci beacoup.”
The place was acceptable for many a café lover (or for anyone just simply looking for a comfortable place—who wouldn’t right?). It was ideal. The delicate rose gold lamps hung from the high ceiling as if God’s light consented whatever matters people were mulling over in that café. Plush velvet were the couches, drenched in pinks and creams pulled out from Wes Anderson’s sanely saccharine mind. Now, the walls gleamed with faces and faces from times and times ago; photographs that breathed old life. From the door, on either side of the place, were shelves of books—Hemingway, Woolf, Wilde, Austen—like guardians with their words silently tucked but triumphed within the walls.
I should be in by 9am. Hold the meeting by 10am. Run errands till noon. Meet with the buyers from around, hmmm, one to three? Yes, that would be good. Then finally, work till 7. Oh no, that’s not right—till 8. Then it’s back home by 9. She sipped her coffee slowly as she watched the other regulars with their own affairs.
Old Mr. Always-In-A-Green-Sweater has his nose in a newspaper, tobacco pipe in tow. He probably never reads the Entertainment section—why would he want to know what happened with Kimye when today’s crossword is about the World War?
Meanwhile, Ms. Herrington (otherwise known as Cat Lady) seems to be wearing a new pair of Prada sunglasses. This time, it’s a lovely cat eye shape in a deep tortoise brown, the green tint barely concealing her unfortunate eye bags. Poor her.
And then there’s that guy. The very epitome of the tall, dark, and handsome ideal. Is he my ideal, you say? Well, he could be if he stopped throwing his coffee cup in the wrong bin. Did I mention he tries to “shoot” it in? Curry, please. His linen shorts are great I must say…until he gets a latte stain on them every now and then.
The lights bathed the café and its inhabitants in the warmest glow and after peering them over, she glanced at her new copy of L’Officiel.
Table of Contents. Page 3: The New Balenciaga. Page 14: Metro Manila’s Finest Designers. Page 30: The Art of Style.
She flipped and started reading an article at random.
My work is my life. Every step I take in my career is an attempt to continue breathing. Without my work—this art that I’ve been conjuring ever since I could imagine—I am nothing.”
And what are your secrets to success?
Well, as I’ve said, work is art and I’m not just saying this because I’m a couturier. I believe that any kind of work requires a certain level of genius, of stamina, and of creative thinking. I mean, we don’t just go off and travel without a map right? Well, you could opt to get lost but how to make that adventure your own is up to you. It’s wit. And style, of course. Pardon me as I pull off a cliché Diana Vreeland: It’s not the dress, but the…
She closed the magazine.
At that moment, a tall man enters through the doorway and all eyes are on him. Sweater lowers his newspaper, Prada slowly removes her glasses, while Wallflower looks up from her copy of Pride and Prejudice.
The woman packed her bag and went to grab some tissue at the cashier on her way out; she always had tissue on her in case of emergencies. “A café au lait with a double shot of espresso, s’il vous plait.” The man’s low voice pierced through the wholeness of the café. He grabbed for his receipt and it fell to the ground. “Here, let me get that for you,” the woman kindly said. He looked at her, his new brown eyes meeting hers. She blushed and broke out, “What a lovely coat you have on.” His creamy camel coat wrapped him up so that he looked as powerful as he was new to the place. “Thank you, I like yours too. It’s a lovely café isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s perfect. We all think so.”
She smiled and turned away, away from him and the café she held close to her heart. The doorman opened and greeted her goodbye, a demain. The man watched her go as her reflection shone upon his jet black sunglasses: a head of disheveled hair, worn-out leather boots, and a long red coat with seams that seem to be tearing apart.
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