Trainlessmagazine : Petit Gâteau

I was new to Paris and in love with it, but like many French lovers, it was testing my infatuation…

I was dead broke. The little money I was earning though baby sitting and odd jobs was just stretching to cover the rent, food being a luxury extra. So when, one afternoon, a confident stranger in the park, asked me out for a drink, the first thing I thought was, free alcohol!

The stranger, now know to me by his name, was generic looking, lacking distinguishing features, but the accent got me and so did the few years seniority to me.

We sat in the red and black bar making small talk, nothing thrilling, but as I drank more of the wine, he defiantly became more interesting. After a while I did not resist when he leaned in for the kiss.

Back at his place the sex was mediocre, but I was drunk so moaned too load and feel off the bed.

His blaring alarm woke me the next morning. I was cross at my self for not waking earlier to sneak out. I hate morning conversation, especially morning after the night before, awkward breakfast conversation, so I pulled on my clothes and politely declined anything cooked to eat.

As I was chugging the orange juice forced upon me, I spied half a packet of Princes chocolate biscuits sitting on the side board. Biscuits for breakfast where still an alien concept for me but suddenly all I could think of was the hard crunch of the top and bottom meeting in the soft middle of creamy, sweet chocolate.

I politely asked if I could grab a few for my journey home and I was handed the whole packet. I fled, holding my prize, proud of my self.

I received a text a couple of days later inviting me round again. I was ironing shirts, not my own, and I felt a stab of excitement. But it was not the sex or the guy or the conversation that sprang into my mind, it was the chocolate biscuits, the food I could not afford, a packet the same price as a weeks worth of rice, the staple of my diet at that time.

I accepted the invitation. Without the lubricant of alcohol, the sex was boring and impersonal. As I lay on my back, I fantasised about my Prince.

Chomping my treats the next morning, the thought struck me that I was sleeping with a guy just to get his biscuits.

Orinaly published on  http://www.trainlessmagazine.com

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