The Daily Grind

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 up to 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.

“Merci beacoup.”

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.

She worked as the manager at the largest clothing retail chain in Paris, a very strategic start for anyone looking to get a job in fashion. Rouge was the name of the brand and she’s been at its helm for almost five years. If it weren’t for her, the brand wouldn’t be enjoying its present success. As the manager, her work requires her to oversee all the company’s operations and to steer it towards the right direction. And what direction is that? She envisioned the brand to be nothing less than the number one retail brand in Paris and all over the world. And so, she promised herself that she would exhaust all efforts to get the brand to that point—that meant no distractions. Non. 

The place was acceptable for many a café lover (or for anyone just simply looking for a comfortable place). It was ideal. The delicate gold lamps hung from the high ceiling and have been there for decades. The nostalgic feel of the almost faded gold lent a sense of stability for the café’s inhabitants. Plush velvet were the couches, drenched in dull pinks and creams like an old still from a Wes Anderson film. Bodies would come and go to sit upon the comfort and coziness, whether to daydream or to work. Now, the walls gleamed with faces and faces from times ago; photographs that breathed old Parisian 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 in triumph within the walls. Still was the life in the café, punctured and sustained by the heady smell of cigarettes and tobaccos.

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 Kim K 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 from all the night reading. Poor her.

Then there’s the other girl who seems just about the woman’s age. Tall, lanky, almost the complete female version of that kid in Perks of Being a Wallflower. Heck, she’s the perfect front for the next Alessandro Michele for Gucci campaign. Hmmm, I wonder what his next collection will be.

Ms. Wallflower sneezes. Bless you. 

And then there’s the guy. The very epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. He’s here just as often as everyone else.  Is he my ideal? Well, he could be if he stopped throwing his coffee cup in the wrong bin. Did I mention he tries to “shoot” it in? His linen shorts are great I must say…until he gets a latte stain on them every now and then. Enough of this nonsense though, I do not have the time to indulge in such useless thoughts. Something like that—she pictures him in her head as he hasn’t showed up yet—would totally obstruct everything.

When he would visit the café, he would often wear a crisp linen button down shirt. On cold days, he would wear a cashmere sweater on top which couldn’t get any more Parisian. By his looks and his belongings—he would bring a leather suitcase—and by the observation that he would always meet with clients of some sort, people have hypothesized that he was a lawyer. Un avocat. Although the waiter kept insisting to everyone else (for the regulars placed their bets on what his job was) that he was a doctor, the rest dismissed this until the waiter gave up. It turned out they were right, though—Ms. Herrington had a friend who was his client.

Given his striking good looks, his well-paying job, and his charming aura, she couldn’t deny that he was all she was looking for in a guy. There was something in him. Something quirky that she couldn’t resist. Out of all the characters in the café, her fellow regulars who brought a sense of stability into her life, it was he who tilted her axis a little. And she kept trying to deny it.

They had their little moments here and there. Sometimes, he would offer his umbrella for her to borrow. She would return it at the café for him to pick up. Sometimes, he would buy her some croissants in the morning when he would be feeling generous. Or sometimes, he would simply greet her bonjour, and that would make her day a little brighter. But then again, her life was dedicated to Rouge and nothing more. She would simply get back to work.

She shook her head to shoo the thoughts away and returned to her coffee and agenda.

The lights bathed the café and its inhabitants in the warmest glow and she glanced at her new copy of L’Officiel which she always kept in her bag—a reminder of her aspirations.

Table of Contents. Page 3: ‘The New Balenciaga’. Page 14: ‘Today’s Finest Designers’. Page 30: The Art of Style.

She flipped and started reading at random. It was a profile.

“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 life you lead in it.”

She closed the magazine.

At that moment, the lawyer entered through the door, and all eyes were on him. Sweater lowers his newspaper, Prada slowly removes her glasses, while Wallflower looks up from her copy of Pride and Prejudice.

He’s holding flowers.

For whom are those?

She had a feeling for whom they were for but she shrugged it off. But her heart began to race. Her pulse quickened.

“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.

They’re very beautiful. I wonder where he bought them—ugh, okay back to this article: “…it’s not the dress but the life you lead in it.”

The man took a sideways glance, smiled at her, and stood up. He walked towards her.

My work is my art. My work is my art. Flip. “How to Be A Girl Boss…Tips for Living on Your Own…Making it Big at 20…” Flip, flip, flip.    

One could not deny that at that moment, there was something different, something that pulsated throughout the familiar warm light in the good old familiar café. It made waves and waves, ready to crash into something, ready for something new—love, maybe—but it hung in the air, shivering, waiting for the woman to look up.

“This seat taken?” he said to her.

At once, the wave of stability and success overpowered that impalpable feeling which beckoned them, and her heart stopped shaking. She plucked up her courage.

“Non,” she said and turned away, away from him and the promise of possibility that hung in the air.

Onwards she went; out into the Paris which she knew was a playground of possibilities that no number of flowers can ever give to her. Only she could make a life for herself. With that, she lighted a cigarette and turned her heel with her head held high.

The doorman opened and greeted her goodbye, a demain. The man watched her go as her reflection shone upon the mirror by the café’s coat rack: a head of disheveled hair, worn-out leather boots, and a long red coat with seams that seem to be tearing apart.