Creative Writing: Dreams of Paris

The sun was peeking through the heavy velvet curtains and left a sunkissed trail of dust falling across the room. It was too early to be awake but too difficult to sleep so she pushed up her facemask and lazily rolled out of bed. She splashed her face with water, pulled on some clothes, and stepped out into the crisp fall morning. The streets were quiet aside from the grumblings of street cleaners finishing up for the night and the odd vendor getting an early start to their kiosk set up. The bell jingled as she entered the café which startled the lonesome customer, an older gentleman catching up on the daily news. As he scoured over the top of his newspaper, investigating who had disrupted him, she ordered a dry cappuccino from the young girl behind the counter. Rather than cause any more disruption she took the steaming drink to the patio outside, wrapping her hands around the bowl to capture all the warmth she could. She made a mental list of all the things she needed for the party that night: cheese, baguette, wine, truffles, figs, and… something else. It’ll come to me later, she thought. As the last drips of her cappuccino coated her mouth, she decided to take a walk along the Siene. It was always better in the early morning or late at night when the rest of the world was indoors. There were a few boats bobbing along the edge with one puttering down the middle. The windows were still foggy so she couldn’t see who was inside but she doubted it would be anyone of interest given the modest exterior. “Bonjour,” she said as she passed one of the benches. The couple sat expressionless, in solidarity, as if they hadn’t heard her greeting, or perhaps they chose to ignore it. Making her way back towards home, she spotted a quaint little shop down one of the side streets that appeared to house antique furniture. She made a wide turn to the right, almost as if she were walking with her eyes rather than her legs, and ended up directly in front of the magical storefront. The wrought iron gates, the ivy crawling up the worn out bricks, and the reclaimed wood pieces just inside the dingy window made her feet do a happy little dance. She had arrived only a few months ago and was still utilizing the wooden crates some of her belongings had been shipped in, so this discovery of grown up furniture without the Ikea tag was very exciting.


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