Little French Market, Historic Ellicott City. Photo by yours truly.
/FICTOGRAPHY/ def. — The intersection of photography (submitted by readers) and fiction (written by me!).
Truthfully, this week I’m on a little bit of a hiatus. On campus, we are down to the last two weeks, and I’ve been inundated with work and grading and attending events, not to mention that it’s Easter weekend. Therefore, I had little time for creativity this week, so for this week’s Fictography, I pulled one out of the archives and dusted it off. I actually took this photograph myself. This cute little coffee shop is situated in Historic Ellicott City, and I used to frequent it all the time when I lived there. I used to love going there, and although I’ve “used my imagination” to embellish what the inside looks like and invented a server who wears a crazy apron, the building served as inspiration for this short snippet I wrote a few years ago. It’s still one of my favorites, as it speaks to several things that can affect relationships: selfishness, heartbreak, and the existence of both good and bad memories. In this particular piece, when I originally wrote it, I was tasked with using a smell to evoke memories from one of the characters, but not the other.
Even if you don’t like the story, you just may end up hungry and “wanting a bite.”
Fictography #16 — Little French Market
“Oh my God? Is it you? It’s been so long…”
“Hello, Edmond.”
“Are you visiting?” his accent was still thick.
“Yes. I’m in town sorting some things out. My father…”
“Come sit with me! I just ordered something. Can you sit? Do you have time?”
I didn’t want to sit, not with him, but I found myself placing my coat on the back of the chair and easing into it. There was French music playing in the background, and the black décor with dark gray accents felt modern French, even though it was nestled in historic Ellicott City.
Edmond talked about his life, his work, how busy he was, and that he’d moved into a brownstone on Main Street. He was renting the downstairs to a tenant who sold handcrafted home goods and wares. Edmond lived upstairs. On and on he went, as I sipped my Hazelnut coffee, letting the aromas fill my nostrils. His hair was still on the long side, his dark eyes upon me. His mouth was moving at an uncomfortable pace, filled with words that propagated self-importance and indulgence.
The girl behind the counter wore a little French apron with the words “voulez-vous un morceau??” on it. She brought him a piping hot croissant with butter and strawberry jam—just the way he always liked it. The smell of the baked croissant— the mixture of the butter and the cream and dough—grabbed hold. My mouth began to water.
“Would you like some?”
“No, thanks,” I lied. “I just ate.”
My mother used to own this place; it was hers. Back then it was called “Emiline’s.” I spent hours in her cafe, helping behind the counter after school, working on the weekends to give my mother a break, and then later, as an adult, when cancer consumed her, I practically lived there. It looked different then. My mother’s taste was feminine French, with pastel blues and pinks and lots of white accents. I have some of her cupboards in my home now. They are beautiful and they remind me of her.
“Voulez-vous un morceau??” then brought Edmond a profiterole with chocolate and ginger crème—the very same kind I would make with my mother. The scent of hot ginger oozed from the puff pastry. When she could no longer work, I’d make them with Edmond. We made love on the floor in the back behind the counter by candlelight one night after closing on an old wool blanket, our bodies covered in flour and chocolate and ginger. I cried about my mother. He told me he loved me, that he would never leave, that he’d never go anywhere. I found out about Caroline the following week. A month later, my mother was dead.
“How long will you be in town?”
“I am only here for the day. My father passed away and I am settling the estate with our lawyer.” I looked at my watch, smelled the ginger. “In fact, I have to go.”
He was never sorry. For any of it. He still owed me money from the sale of our condominium, among other things.
“It was good to see you, Chéri. Chin up!”
Condescending, selfish bastard. A sense of revulsion pulsed through me. He never called me by my name. Time marched on, but Edmond didn’t change.
I stood to face him; I found the words I’d imagined uttering for years. “You, Edmond, are a selfish ass, and you always will be.”
Customers stared. I snatched my coat from the chair, nearly knocking it over, and walked out, making sure to keep my head high. The moment lasted all of about ten seconds, but he actually looked stunned when I said it.
French Translation:
“Voulez-vous un morceau??” – Would you like a bite?
