I am proud of myself for having woken up before you, this morning, kissing the tip of your nose and tousling your hair, edging you out of bed, saying, "wake up, Love," five times, when it is always you who says those words, never I.
Ah, but today, I did.
Ah, but today, I did.
I take a sip of my delicious coffee, savoring its fragrance, my skin tingling with happiness at being where I am right now, with you. I adjust the brim of my wide hat--which you bought for me yesterday evening as we were walking back to our hotel, because you know that the sun and I have a love-hate relationship--and watch you staring at a sleek black renault parked across the street. Men and cars, I muse, and try to switch to thinking in the language of this country: hommes et voitures. My "Francaise" is appalling--how does one say this in French? Wait--les hommes et les voitures?
I frown at my croissant and the pocket dictionary perched beside the plate. When I look up, you are looking at me, smiling. "A lovely morning to you, too, my love," you say, "let me kiss that frown away from your face."
And you do, leaning over the red-checked table to kiss me.
"Bonjour, mon beau," I whisper back..
"Now how do I call that waiter?" you ask.
"Ah," I say, "you just shout garçon! I think." And you do just that.
And you do, leaning over the red-checked table to kiss me.
"Bonjour, mon beau," I whisper back..
"Now how do I call that waiter?" you ask.
"Ah," I say, "you just shout garçon! I think." And you do just that.
The garçon walks to our sunlit table and asks, "oui, Monsieur? Mademoiselle?" I smile at what he just called me. You gesture with your hands and the waiter looks quizzically at you. You scratch your head, grinning like a shy little boy.
"Une billet, sil vous plait," I say, and he smiles, nodding, then walks away.
"I had better look at that dictionary, love," you laugh.
"Une billet, sil vous plait," I say, and he smiles, nodding, then walks away.
"I had better look at that dictionary, love," you laugh.
I smile happily at you, thinking how you are beautiful anywhere, in any language.
Around us, foreign words float like musical notes, and I sit back on my chair, drinking in the loveliness. You are perfect, sitting across from me, adjusting your glasses and looking up at the sky. There is a dreamy look in your face, and I brim with contentment. What a beautiful morning today is and the rest of the day stretches before us like a promise that's about to be kept, gleaming in the sunlight, golden and bright.
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I remember the night before. We had just arrived in Toulouse and it was a beautiful evening. We checked in late and before I knew it we were fast asleep, tired from our journey. But I remember thinking about the next day before I fell asleep. Thinking, if not willing the weather to be perfect so we could enjoy our first day away together. Hmmm, breakfast in the beautiful, romantic settings of the cobblestone streets of the city would be a great start.
The morning broke and yes, I remember being awoken by you. I remember hearing the sound of your sweat small voice. I tried to stay down, tried to hang on to every moment of you stroking your fingers through my hair but alas, when I finally opened my eyes there you were a picture of beauty. That precious smile beaming across your face. A smile, I suppose, which I knew meant that you did not want to be anywhere else. My day could not have started any better.
After we showered, we left our room and made our way out of the hotel and on to the streets of Toulouse to find that perfect breakfast location. I took your hand in mine. It felt so delicate and soft. It had a coolness about it. It was almost like your hand had this unique signature that even if I was blind and I touched a million hands, I would know yours because it would be the only hand that could unlock my feelings.
We had only walked a little way along the old cobblestone street when we came across a little cafe. It had tables on the side walk and these old ceramic planter boxes with these colorful bushes around the perimeter to mark its territory and to provide a little privacy. But what set this cafe apart was the awning over the side walk tables. It was made of old wood and it had a vine growing through it. The vine had a series of pink and red flowers, small flowers growing on the vine. The building itself was old and probably built around the First World War. What was its history? That didn't matter now as it was now the place where I would sit with you and wonder about you.
We sat down outside under the awning looking out onto the street. It was quite busy that morning.
I remember when the French waiter first came to our table. You spoke in French. I was so mezmorized by the enchanting sound of your voice as you spoke. It was I like I could see the words float out of your mouth and dance their way across the air into my ears which received them with great joy. How marvelous you are. So mezmorised I could not hear the clattering of cars driving across the cobblestone streets or the table next to us laughing at the stories they were discussing.
"A lovely morning to you, too, my love", I remember snapping out of my coma to say this to you. But I remember though, the day can only get better with your hand in mine.
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