A Man, A Woman, and French Toast

A Story by Fischerry

A challenge from a prompt: Start the first sentence with A, the second with B, the third with C, and so on.

man walked into a café, shaking free drops of rain from his light, curly hair. Beside him his long time friend shouldered off her pink parka and headed towards a booth. Cautiously he followed her brash lead through a jungle of customers, mumbling sorrys and excuse mes where he deemed necessary. Dropping in an exhausted pile on the crimson cushion he looked up at her. Eye contact was not something he was especially fond of, but for her he did his best. "French toast sound good?," she questioned with a smile. Giving what he hopes to be a relaxed smile back he nods, if only he wasn't so- him- maybe there'd be a chance... He shakes the thoughts away, he would never, could never, consider asking. If there was any chance of their friendship becoming anything more, it was in a parallel universe, one where pigs could fly, maybe? Just as he shoveled a mammoth fork full of syrup drenched French toast in his mouth, she asks something he's only ever dreamed of. Knife in one hand, fork in the other, he's frozen in place. "Listen, I don't believe in letting opportunities pass me by. Maybe this is crazy- and just tell me if it is- but you mean a lot to me. Now, you don't have to, but come to my place. Orville and movies are on me." Practical, of course, she is a women for whom time is static. Questioning the system, and living completely in the moment. Right now, if he says no and walks away, she will too. She is a planet, carrying her belongings with her, always on the move, and he is caught in her orbit. Trying to control the bright flush of warmth coming over his face he smiles, and it feels so completely in place. Up he rises from the booth, and follows her back through the maze of people. Voyaging between chairs and tables, not one sorry was said.

White snow drifts from the faded slate sky, a small girl holds the hand of a man with light and curly hair, making their way to the café door. 'X' the girl traces on the frosty window, then runs to hold her fathers hand again, practically dragging him inside. Yellow light illuminates a faded crimson booth, where a woman waits with a smile on her face. Zealously, the man and girl make their way over to the booth, a woman in a pink parka and a tower of French toast awaiting them.