10 am. You watch as the clock strikes the hour and your attention immediately snaps to the phone on your desk. It happens every Tuesday like clockwork:
At 10:05 the phone rings, you answer with a simple "Cormier's Pâtisserie", and take an order for 2 chocolate croissants. They are arguably your best selling item, though your pear tart offers some tight competition, but it's not the order that's caught your attention. It's the woman that walks in every Tuesday at 10 past the hour, the way she saunters to the counter all cool confidence and Cheshire grin, to pick up her order. Cosima.
You've never spoken to her in person, only over the phone, and every day when she comes in you've already prepared her order and snuck out into the café, blending in with the customers for reasons you really don't understand. It's silly you think, foolish to hide from someone you've never met, someone who you know is already impressed by you, well, impressed by your cooking really, but you hide nonetheless. You're intrigued and curious and for whatever reason you decide that means you need to sit back and observe rather than engage. You think it's a self-preservation thing, perhaps, but deep down you know you're just rationalizing to make yourself feel better.
10:06. Silence. You furrow your eyebrows as you stare at the phone on your desk, willing it to ring.
It doesn't.
Maybe she's sick today or running late, you can't be sure (because you don't actually know her) but regardless you make your way into the front of the shop, snagging a small paper box on your way to the front display and placing two chocolate croissants safely inside. Wishful thinking.
10:09. The phone has yet to ring. She's not coming today.
You walk to the front of the shop and look down the street before looking hard at your watch.
10:10.
The phone rings. There's a line of customers at the counter and your cashier is busy enough so you tell him not to worry and grab it yourself, "Cormier's Pâtisserie." You grab a pad from the counter and ready yourself to take an order, eyes flitting across the café.
"Hey, yeah, I'd like two chocolate croissants please."
You breathe her name without thinking, the relief in your voice utterly embarrassing. Merde.
"Uh, yeah, that's me." She chuckles. She's letting it slide. You'll take it. You give her her total and hang up, making your way to a table in the corner and sitting down right as the shop door opens, bell ringing overhead.
An amused Cosima walks to the counter and picks up her order, casually looking around, eyes falling on you briefly before being pulled back to your cashier. She pays and you think it's over, that your embarrassment ends here but no, today she walks towards you, croissants in hand, smile firmly in place, and she says hello.
"Hey."
It's simple, but you're finding it hard to breathe.
"Hi, hello," you reply, awkward and tense. "May I help you?"
She sets her box on the table, cocks her head to the side. "You're very clever," she says, grinning like she knows she's won.
"I'm afraid I don't know…" You trail off, playing as dumb as possible despite the fact that you can feel yourself blushing.
"Cosima," she extends her hand and you stare at it briefly before gripping it lightly.
"Delphine."
Her smile broadens and it pulls a matching one from your lips.
"Sorry if I threw off your routine," she begins, sitting down across from you. "I had to be sure I'd pegged you right before just crashing your table."
She's got you flustered. "Pegged? I don't-"
She speaks again before you can finish, "You're here every Tuesday, same as me. Sitting alone at the table in the corner, no food or drink. I thought maybe you were always waiting for someone but then I put two and two together and well… pegged."
She opens the box and unceremoniously takes out a croissant, tearing off the corner and popping it into her mouth.
You're too dumbfounded to speak.
"Why were you hiding?"
Her eyes narrow as she waits for your reply, though there is no malice in them, only genuine curiosity.
"I wasn't," you begin, unsure of how to answer without making yourself look like more of a fool. "I am just better with dough than I am with people."
It's honest enough – you're better at making pastries than you are at making friends – and Cosima seems to find it endearing if the softening in her eyes tells you anything.
"Well you're amazing with dough," she says, holding up her croissant for emphasis. "These guys are killer."
You offer a bashful thank you, head tilted down, trying and failing to hide the ridiculously large smile on your face.
She laughs.
Your eyes make a quick pass over the café to the counter and you realize the line is too long. Your face falls.
"I should probably," you tilt your head in the direction of the counter. She gets it. Her smile falters.
"Oh, yeah, of course."
"Um, next Tuesday," you nod toward the box once again in her hand. "They're on me."
She smiles. "Okay. Awesome."
"And maybe a coffee too."
She nods, her smile wide and genuine. Yours is identical.
You make your way to the counter, looking over your shoulder as you go, making note of the fact that she waits until you're helping a customer to slip out the door.
"Hi," you greet the woman in line. "What can I get you?"
You can't wait til next Tuesday.