The Patisserie Girl…
I’m laying on the bed, it’s early morning, and I am watching the sun casting dappled brighter spots upon the wallpaper, the same disgusting wallpaper I have to wake up to each morning. Another day, I have been here in Paris for over a month now, it’s work, but not how you’d know work, unless, and I hope you don’t for your sake, do the same line of work as me. Each day I follow the same pattern, the same rituals, and when I say each day, I mean seven days a week, week after boring week.
My alarm rings, I always set it early, a trait that I have practiced since a child, and then I have a period where I just lie, either looking at the ceiling, or at some object in the room. It used to be the time when I thought of my day ahead, now it’s when I plan, in my job it’s always about the plan. I know exactly when I need to get out of bed, I don’t need to check the clock, even the alarm nowadays is not to wake me up, for I am awake long before it rings. The alarm is all about ritual, ritual is good; ritual keeps me going when I need to work for long periods without too much rest, and have no time to spend in restful pursuits.
Lying there, I think of home, and especially the lack of sex, but sex is the mind killer, sex is something I have put away for this time of work. It’s the reward I seek at the end of work, and when my job is finally done, for like everything I do, I take it seriously.
I swing my legs off the bed, it was very warm last night, and so I slept naked. My feet touch the bare boards of pine, the boards which have been polished by so many feet over time, and then I haul myself to my full six feet, stretch my limbs, breath deep, and then moving to the end of the bed, start my daily Tai Chi workout.
Next I check the tools of my trade, removing them from their hiding places, I am anal when it comes to the tools of my trade, I always double check everything, cleaning and polishing them, even though none of them have been used for months. There is something that I love about them though, its not only the feel, the smell, but the way they are built for just one thing, and in the right hands, go from lumps of metal to being things of beauty, things which need a real skill.
Finishing that ritual, I then dress. On this job, it’s T-shirt and black jeans, each morning I choose from my collection of rock stars cotton T’s, which are special to me, but I will tell more about them later in this confession, on my feet, no socks, it’s a pair of ‘All Stars’ black high top baseball boots, which I take every care in lacing, I don’t need them coming undone at an inappropriate moment.
I am living above a patisserie shop near the centre of Paris; it opens early in the morning, before even I rise myself. There are stairs leading into the shop itself, and also some narrow steps, which lead, directly down and out through a stout door into the narrow street. I always use these in the morning to exit, but later on my return from work in the middle morning, I will buy something tasty from the shop, and then use the stairs at the back to return to my room. Once back in the room, I will practice Tai Chi, have an afternoon sleep, and only when it’s fully dark, leave by the back steps and find my dinner in some small restaurant.
Having hidden my chosen tools about myself, I exit into the street at the same time as normal; I’m going to breakfast in the same place as everyday. As I casually stroll past the patisserie window, I look in at the pastries, which have already been baked fresh today, there is a large display, and I consider the attractive shop assistant who is laying out more cream filled tartlets to fill the spaces of those which have already been bought. From my position I can see almost down her white cotton blouse, her firm breasts are swinging slightly as she moves to and fro, it’s then she happens to look up, and catches my eye, her smile is as instant, and almost as bright as the early morning summer sun. Just for an instant, I feel the urge to dally and maybe flirt, but then my mind moves on and I continue my stroll down the street and away from her temptations.
From beneath the Duvet 