Between coffee, roses, and bread...

I am going to give you a sneak peek at my WIP novel.

Once upon a bread…

In front of him stretched the wide avenue full of bustle and social whirlpools, inviting the walker to immerse himself in its rich culture and inquire into the evolution of its history. But he didn’t have time for minorities, he told himself as he hurried to Le Madame Rouge café, because he had more important things to think about.

Five or six years before, perhaps, he would have noticed the tiny violet flowers that grew in the middle of the adversity that the black asphalt and the grayish sidewalk offered them as home; in the elderly couple in love who shared laughter and whispers as if the years did not weigh on their shoulders and carried on their lips the youth of life; in the curious plush stuffed animals with bright eyes that were displayed in the window of a cozy gift shop; or, even, in the group of laughing children, whose ages, heights and skin colors were as varied as wild flowers in a forgotten field. In other times, perhaps, with less uneasiness in his chest and more grace in his mind, he would have noticed all this. But of that light and playful soul there remained only the dying vestiges of what it once was.

No, now he was a baleful man in a suit with a briefcase that weighed on him like a mountain, however empty it was, whose grace of life faded from his eyes with disturbing quickness as his lips murmured troubles and his hand translated them to paper with perfect preciseness. Ironically, as the number increased, his content decreased. He was nothing more than a walking body without consciousness of its surroundings, without admiration for beauty, with a number inscribed on his forehead that, although very visible, few would have the ability to capture.

Le Madame Rouge enjoyed a privileged position on the corner of one of the busiest avenues in New York. Hundreds of customers frequented its elegant interiors every day, whose walls were dressed in varnished light wood, with touches of dark metal, hanging planters of the same color and overflowing red roses filling every corner. Warm lights stretched beneath the dark mahogany counter, where succulent French delicacies were on display, from a glittering croissant to a soft crème brûlée, as well as the vinized sandwiches and baguettes covered in icing and raspberry jelly. For any mortal, the exuberant amount of varied coffee preparations would have been too much, but for a lover of the dark brew it would have been paradise. The golden chandeliers with hanging prisms illuminated the rest of the space, giving it a sophisticated aura, as if the old air of past centuries had been transported to that place with all integrity. The curious floor covering, with square black and white ceramics, interposed as if it were a chessboard, inspired an ethereal combination of the golden ages of rock with the times of the French Revolution.

The man with the briefcase saw himself enveloped in that atmosphere as soon as he crossed the glass doors, intoxicated to his lungs with the delicious aroma that threatened to numb his senses. It was his moment of glory. Only then did his old version break the surface from the bottom and wander inside him like a bird of prey that suddenly sees itself in freedom.

The spirited crowd of people created an exquisite bustle around him as he made his way to the front, where a young woman radiant with beauty was waiting for him from the other side of the counter with her usual smile and good humor.

“It’s our faithful friend, the man with the briefcase!” The elegant saleswoman threw in, her reddish hair swinging around her face. “Do you never leave it at home?”

“I’m afraid we’re talking about my faithful friend, miss,” the man replied with that smile that only the redhead could get out of him day after day, during the ephemeral moment of interaction. “Not the best, perhaps, but faithful and useful after all. Also, remember that I always pass by here on my way to work.”

“You could come here from time to time, stop being in a hurry and enjoy life a little, don’t you think?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you that my only days off are precisely the days that this place is closed.”

Thoughtful, the young woman narrowed her honey-colored eyes and looked at him, trying to solve the inconvenient dilemma.

“I wouldn’t mind making an exception from time to time if I can stop your eyes from being so empty,” said the saleswoman who, in addition to serving customers, was the owner of the cafe herself. “Don’t think I didn’t notice, huh? I can see it in your eyes; they are nothing more than two empty ice wells.”

The man with the briefcase was not used to his sweet friend meddling in his business, so dismayed, he did not know what to say about it. To get out of trouble, he had to resort to the old unfailing. Changing the subject was always an easy and effective strategy.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” he said. “But I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“Of course, as always,” although she did not want it, the young woman let out a hint of irony, which she instantly recompensed for with a soft smile. “Don’t worry, we know what you like. The usual?”

Thankful for the course of the conversation, the man with the briefcase reciprocated the smile as he nodded.

“The usual.”

“A medium-sized Frappuccino with two honeyed buns running right away.”

With another smile, the young woman turned to make the order, which made the man lose his point of attention, which forced him to lower his eyes and let them fall into a product in the display case that he had not noticed before. It was a simple block bread, displayed on a tray of wood and wax paper. The chalk label read “rose water” with style and delicacy.

To create some conversation while waiting, the man made a comment about it.

“New recipe?”

Turning in his direction gracefully, the young woman smiled, glad he had noticed.

“I see that you are observant.”

“Only when it deserves it.”

“In that case I must have done enough merit to deserve such a privileged position.”

“I assure you, Miss Rouge, you could do any thing,¹ and it would still be worth observing.”

The young woman’s cheeks flushed red at the compliment, revealing her sensitive nature. A bell rang behind the redhead’s back and she turned around with the excuse of picking up the order; meanwhile, the man with the briefcase, satisfied with the result, smiled smugly behind her. After several visits to Le Madame Rouge, he had learned to recognize that the bell indicated the departure of an order, which he was able to confirm once again when one of the baristas approached the redhead with his hands full.

After thanking the barista, the young woman handed the man with the briefcase his order, a cylindrical container with the flavor of its interior steaming through the lid, complemented with a small brown paper bag with the cafe’s logo printed on the front side. The man took out his wallet and paid, somewhat saddened by having to leave so soon. However, there was no remedy, and once he received the cash and took his order, his gaze collided with that of the girl who looked at him with equal or even more emotion.

“Thank you,” he said politely. “Have a nice day.”

“It was a pleasure to serve you, too,” the smiling girl replied. “And remember my proposal.”

She gave him one last smile and the man with the briefcase left there as always, with the briefcase tightly held in one hand and the cooking supplies in the other. He continued walking north on Fifth Avenue toward the large building whose exterior image was covered in crystal and polished metals, the place where he had served and pursued sustenance since he had entered the university.

When the man with the briefcase had reached his office without any alteration to his routine, he left the briefcase in the first place he found, sat down, and proceeded to once again taste the addictive infusion from the cylindrical container, with the same accompanying order as every day. Or so he thought, because when he opened the bag he discovered that there was a slice of an unknown bread in it, in addition to the two buns. He didn’t have to make much effort to understand what it was. Smiling, he tried it, and the delicacy of its flavor, the softness of its texture and, perhaps, its exquisite amount of sweetness, convinced him.

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Author’s Note

It all started with a contest on a website. The thing was to write a story of up to 1,200 words that told a story where bread was involved. To be honest, I have no idea where it came from, I just sat down in front of a blank page and the words just flowed. It was as if the story had always been inside me, sleeping, waiting for the right moment to come out.

Fun fact: When I published my short story on the website as Pan de Rosas (Rose Bread), I did so under an old pseudonym that only included my initials followed by my last name (something like J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, J.R. Rowling, etc.). Thanks to my unknown gender identity, one or two people thought I was a 25-year-old man. And that’s the fun fact. I know, crazy!

For those curious, I didn’t win (actually I made sure I wasn’t qualified to win). But I received some really good feedback that encouraged me a lot, and now that short story has become the prologue of my current dramance² WIP, titled Rouge.

I’ve been writing this novel since July of last year, and it’s been quite a challenge because I’ve never before felt so anxious about finishing a book and not being able to. I had severe writer’s block for months earlier this year, and it discouraged me so much that I had to give up and stop writing fiction altogether. Pushing myself like that was affecting me emotionally. I’d never had writer’s block before, so you can imagine my frustration and despair when I realized the words just wouldn’t come. It was terrifying. I started wondering if I was losing myself. What frustrated me most, though, was that when I finally managed to write something, it seemed so effortless that no one would believe I spent hours staring at the blank page, as if it were a mirror reflecting what was in my mind.

I suppose that’s why I get so excited when I manage to write even a fifty-word paragraph, because I know the flow of thought might not last. However, writing Rouge has taught me so much. Not only about the writing and the book itself, but also about me. It’s fascinating how, even though Rouge is set in a place and circumstances completely different from my own, I still see myself reflected in it.

Maybe I’m a little crazy for thinking I can finish writing this novel in less than 30 days when I clearly haven’t even been able to get to chapter 4 in a year, but I’ve always been a little crazy, so we’ll pretend I have superpowers for now and see how that goes by the end of November.

Well, guys, I wasn’t planning on posting anything today, but I heard that someone—you know who you are👀—desperately needed to read a cozy, fluffy, and cheesy story, so I thought, “Well, why not?”

And that’s all for today. Until next time!

Behind the letters,

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1. Yeah, I know it’s “misspelled.” It was on purpose, ¿¡okay!? ¿Does that count?

2. Dramance: drama + romance.

I like to think of it as a Jane Austen-style storytelling.