I perch on a stool. “Yes please.”
He’s peeling carrots this morning and I enjoy watching him, while listening to the male vocalist, who’s currently singing about being on fire—a reference I don’t understand at all.
“And what culinary delights can I fix for you on this wondrous day?” Pierre asks, and I can’t determine if he’s being sarcastic or genuine.
“Whatever you’re having will be fine.”
“Ah, I do not eat breakfast. Coffee and a cigarette is all I can stomach until lunch.”
“Oh?” I can’t help feeling a little deflated. If Pierre was eating with me, then I would have whatever he was having, and no doubt it would be much more pleasant than my usual oatmeal. But I do need to eat, because I feel lightheaded if I skip breakfast.There’s nothing wrong with oatmeal, child. It’s healthy and nutritious!Larissa’s words are never far from me, and I take comfort in them always, even if that feels a little harder to do this morning when I’m so hungry and Pierre’s suggestion of adding cream, honey or berries yesterday is so deliciously appealing. But I’m strong, and I was raised right. I won’t discount all her years of teaching simply for the promise of some short-term gratification—as delicious as it might be.“I’ll just take some oatmeal please.”
“Ach!” He pulls a face, but then he washes his hands and prepares the food without another complaint. A few moments later, he sets the bowl down in front of me. Then he grabs the pot of coffee.
“Coffee, mademoiselle?”
The smell of coffee intrigues me, rich and smoky, so decadent that it almost feels forbidden. And Pierre seems to enjoy it, given the way he smacks his lips together in satisfaction after he takes that first sip. “I don’t know. I’ve never tasted coffee before.”
He gasps dramatically. “Never tasted coffee?”
“No.” I take a spoonful of the bland paste he just served me and swallow it down.
He grabs a cup and pours me one alongside his own. “I take mine black but I would suggest a little cream for your first time. And per’aps a little sugar,non?”
“No sugar,” I insist, not wanting to stray too far from my regular diet. “But I’ll try it with the cream.”
He mumbles something in French before handing me the cup. Then he sits opposite me at the table and I don’t bother to hide my smile at his company. I like Pierre.
“So, take a sip and tell me what you think.” He makes a hurrying gesture with his hands.
I lift the cup to my lips and the rich earthy aroma floods my sense of taste and smell before I even take a sip. It’s bitter, shockingly so, dulled a little by the cream but still foreign. I swallow quickly, not knowing how to hold it in my mouth. It leaves an oily residue behind that feels unfamiliar, along with a comforting heat. I take a bigger sip and feel a little buzz of adrenaline in my chest. Wow!
“Well?” Pierre asks.
I lick my lips, still tasting the lingering bitterness in the back of my throat. “I like it.”
“Bien.” He smiles and then drinks his own.
It’s hard to go back to my oatmeal after the coffee, but I force it all down anyway. Because it’s good for me and it would be rude to waste food.
“Never had coffee, huh?” Pierre asks, almost to himself.
“No.”
“What about tea?”
“I’ve had green tea,” I tell him, recalling how much I disliked it. I forced it all down anyway because Larissa made it for me and she would have scolded me for wasting it had I not. I never asked for it again. I don’t tell Pierre this though, not because I particularly want to keep it secret, but because I think he already thinks me fairly naive and inexperienced, which is true in a lot of ways. And if I tell him that I don’t even like tea, maybe he’ll stop sharing his coffee with me.
“Soda?” he asks.
I shake my head instinctively and then remember he can’t see me. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Candy?”
Sugar is addictive. It will make you fat and rot your teeth, and it has no nutritional benefit at all. “No.”
“Did your parents not allow you to eat sweet things?”
“My parents died when I was three.”
