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My stomach growled in response, and I couldn't help but feel like a kid in a candy store. Okay, fine, a bakery. Same thing.
I perused the display case, my eyes widening with each delicious-looking treat.
There were cupcakes with buttercream frosting, cinnamon buns the size of my head, and donuts with all sorts of wacky flavors. I was in heaven.
After much deliberation (and drooling), I settled on a chocolate croissant and a raspberry macaron.
I paid the friendly cashier and practically skipped out of the bakery, feeling like I had won the lottery.
I continued my walk home, savoring every bite of my treats, letting out little moans of pleasure with each mouthful.
The croissant was buttery and flaky, with just the right amount of chocolate. And the macaron was sweet and tangy, with a delicate texture that practically melted in my mouth.
I couldn't help but feel like a bit of a glutton as I walked and ate, but hey, life is short, and if you can’t indulge in a little bakery treat now and then, what's the point?
Turning the key in the lock, I stepped inside my cottage-y apartment, taking in the sight of the afternoon sun casting an amber shadow upon my living room. I felt grateful for the little moments of joy that make life worth living.
And if that joy came in the form of a chocolate croissant and a raspberry macaron, well, who was I to argue?
I was on my last bite and wondering what to do about my essay when Chelsea came online.
“So, what’s the verdict? How did you like your classes? Are we stayin’ or are we runnin’?”
I set the phone in a comfy space where she could see me moving around the kitchen and busied myself in making a cup of joe.
“It was . . .” I thought about what I wanted to say for a little while. “It was perfect, actually. I can’t complain. I had such good professors today, Chels.”
“The English dude, right?”
“And then this psychology professor. He was amazing. He said these things about intimacy, and they got me thinking. I have an essay to write, but I already have some ideas.”
I settled down with my coffee, basking in the amber haze of my homely little space.
“What did he say?”
“He said all kinds of love are good kinds, so long as everyone’s in the loop.”
Chelsea chuckled. “That’s very short and succinct. I like it. Trust NYC to give you the most unconventional of professors. Rors, you’re joining the chatroom tonight.”
I groaned. I honestly wanted to finish the essay and read some Austen.
“No, ma’am, you’re not getting out of this.” Chelsea continued, wagging her finger at me, “You wanna die alone with nine cats? That’s fine. As a Swiftie, I have nothing against cat lovers.”
As she spoke, Sir Bartholomew climbed up on my lap and rubbed his bushy tail against my sweater.
“I can’t believe you named that tiny little kitten Sir Bartholomew,” Chelsea said, looking at him and rolling her eyes.
“He’s just Bartie,” I replied, leaning down to kiss my Persian cat’s very blue eyes. “And as a fellow Swiftie, you know cats are life.”
“Ugh, Rory, you’re joining that room. You promised me.”
I sighed. I wanted to protest, but Chelsea had her convictions, and I was too tired to fight them today.
Plus, a part of me was actually very curious.
Naughty Lessons sounded like a hoot. I didn’t know what I was expecting. Maybe I’d enter a room and find a guy, and we’d just . . . talk? It sounded corny as all heck.
“Okay, humor me this one time, and I promise I’ll make up for it.”
