The Peach and the Poppy

by Caesar J. M. Kauftheil

  Table of Contents

  The Peach and the Poppy

  Book Details

  Dedication

  Une Cigarette

  Metropolitan

  Dans la Cathédrale

  Lindsay

  Irreligious Experiences

  Where Devious Paths Lead

  Gratification

  A Small Adventure

  The Polyglot's Notebook

  A Pun-derstanding Between Friends

  Faire du Shopping

  A Summer Scarf

  A+

  Un Dîner de Bonne Heure

  Bon Appétit

  Une Autre Cigarette

  Pun Pals

  Shakespeare and Co.

  April

  Brits and Pieces

  A Moveable Feast

  Rue Quelque Chose

  Pieces of April

  Come What May

  A+ Plus

  Peach

  Petit Déjeuner

  A Beautiful View

  Picture Perfect Fantasies

  Souvenir

  New Fires and Old Flames

  Locked

  Honesty

  Fingertip Kisses

  Poetry of Poppy

  Wink, Clink, Drink

  Rock Paper Scissors

  Heaven

  Faire l'Amour

  La Petite Mort

  Morning with Momo

  A Shared Shower

  Rochelle's Souvenir

  Hot Coffee and Planned Discussions

  More Gratification

  Dope

  Rochelle

  A Change of Plans

  Sweet Dreams

  Breakfast Date

  The Pit in Poppy's Pocket

  Amber, Clear, Haze

  Au Revoir, Hello

  The Peach and the Poppy

  About the Author

  The Peach and the Poppy

  Caesar J.M. Kauftheil

  After an unpleasant breakup with her girlfriend, Poppy goes on a solo trip to Paris. Her first morning out she encounters a beautiful stranger, but it proves to be the only good part of the day. Though she tries to appreciate the beautiful city she's come to escape in for a time, Poppy can't help but feel something is lacking.

  When her best friend suggests what she needs is a fling to clear away her ex for good, Poppy approaches the beautiful woman from before to be her tour guide for the duration of her vacation, but as the trip draws all too quickly to an end, Poppy realizes that in seeking a cure for heartache, she may instead have just made the problem worse...

  Book Details

  The Peach and the Poppy

  By Caesar J.M. Kauftheil

  Published by Less Than Three Press LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Keith Kaczmarek

  Cover designed by Natasha Snow

  This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  First Edition June 2015

  Copyright © 2015 by Caesar J.M. Kauftheil

  Printed in the United States of America

  Digital ISBN 9781620045558

  Print ISBN 9781620045725

  To Debbie,

  who, more than anyone else, will be able to appreciate this book.

  Une Cigarette

  Saturday

  Huh, thought Poppy; that was easy. It seemed like she had hardly spent two minutes walking up the block from her hotel before she came across an inviting place to get breakfast. Maybe it was the excitement and novel, sensory overflow of spending her first day in Paris: the essence of the city's air, the European architecture, passing strangers filling her ears with a foreign tongue—it even sounded pretty coming from the grungy-looking young man begging on the sidewalk—which made it seem like she had only been walking for two minutes.

  She glanced behind her; no, she could still see her hotel. Okay, so it had only been a couple of minutes, but wasn't Paris enrapturing?

  Poppy read the sign above the entrance: 'Brasserie.' She scanned her mind for a particular datum: an establishment that was something between a café and a restaurant. She prided herself on the fact that she didn't have to check the guidebook she carried in her backpack to remember that the word meant. She walked past the line of tables outside to the space inside. Cozy.

  As she approached the counter, she practiced her order under her breath. The cashier put down his newspaper, and she asked for un café, and did her best to soften the 'r' in croissant. The man said something which she didn't understand (her crash-course in French hadn't prepared her for the speed and fluency of a native speaker), and she took his outstretched hand as an indication that she should find herself a table.

  She found a spot at the threshold where the warmth of the brasserie and the chill of the Parisian morning air allowed her to comfortably unbutton her new pea coat, loosen her scarf, and only remove the wool cap from over her wavy dirty-blonde hair.

  She knew the French preferred smaller portions, but she stilled blinked a few times at the demitasse the waiter placed next to the croissant. Compared to the satisfying mug of coffee she had been expecting, the cup seemed to contain only a sip's worth, with a handle she could only grasp between her index finger and thumb. Gingerly, she took a small sip at the crema of her espresso, and the bitterness made her wince. In an urgent effort to cleanse her palate, she tore a corner from the buttery pastry and popped it in her mouth.

  "God damn…" she muttered to herself. She realized the tragedy in the fact that she had spent twenty-five years of life not knowing what a croissant was supposed to taste like.

  She noticed the sleeve-like package of sugar placed on the cup's proportionately-sized saucer, emptied it into the bitter brew, and stirred it with a correspondingly miniature spoon. She sipped again—it was tolerable, almost enjoyable.

  Between small sips and savory nibbles, she began to absent-mindedly people-watch. A svelte and uptight-looking woman walked by with a small dog at her heel. Some older men walked purposefully down the rue, arguing passionately and emphatically. Two younger women walked by, one white, the other African (Poppy had to fight back the ingrained reflex to label her as 'African-American'), and she commented to herself how absolutely gorgeous French women were.

  Poppy grinned to herself; maybe it was better that she made this trip without Shannon.

  Her cup drained, and her croissant reduced to flaky crumbs, which she gathered and licked off her finger, Poppy waited for the waiter to walk by with the check, but he was still reading his newspaper. No worries, she thought; I have no plans to be anywhere today—I'm not with Shannon. She again smiled privately. Several minutes passed, the waiter walked past her to bring a cup of coffee to another patron, and passed her again, making no eye contact. She sipped the imaginary last drops of her coffee for the third time.

  Perhaps I should— she started, but the thought never fully formed. Her attention became completely focused on the woman who walked out of a shop across the street, which Poppy took to be a bakery. She was Asian, though Poppy couldn't quite place the specific ethnicity, and unbelievably beautiful. Her sleek black hair was tied in a bun on the top of her head, and she balanced a baguette in the crook of her arm as she lit a cigarette.

  An urgency overtook her body, and she dropped several euro coins on the table, overpaying for her meal. She was already striding across the street before she knew what she was doing. Her heart raced—she had no idea what she expected to say to this woman when her handle of the lan
guage hardly extended past greetings. Well, that was somewhere to start…

  "Bonjour," she said, getting the woman's attention, before stammering into "Excusez-moi." She froze—what next? "Vous avoir un cigarette?" she attempted to translate, not sure even where that request was coming from.

  "Close," the gorgeous creature said. "Next time, say 'Avez-vous une cigarette?'" she explained, dictating the phrase in slow, clear French. Poppy's pale cheeks flushed, and she looked at the stranger with an expression that betrayed the whirlwind of thoughts spinning in her mind. "And, yes, I do. Voila."

  Managing through the situation moment by moment, Poppy took a cigarette from the proffered deep-blue pack.

  "You speak English," she realized, replacing the foot in her mouth with the filter of the cigarette, hoping it would stop her from saying anything else idiotic.

  "I do," the woman said with a chuckle. Poppy wasn't sure which was more captivating: the way laughter lit up her almond-shaped, brown eyes, or the curl of her full, dark lips. She silently registered that she spoke English without a strong accent—well, without a strong accent by Poppy's standards, at least. The lady held up a lighter, and after a moment, Poppy leaned forward and placed the end of her cigarette into the flame in the attractive stranger's cupped hands.

  She immediately started coughing. It was worth it to see the woman's amused smile again.

  "These cigarettes are probably a bit more potent than what you're used to."

  "Yeah," Poppy lied. She took a few fake inhalations, drawing the smoke into her mouth and blowing it out after a second. Just like college, she thought.

  "Just visiting?" the woman asked. Poppy nodded.

  "On vacation. Just flew in last night."

  "Good for you," the woman said,dropping the remains of her cigarette and crushing the ember under the sole of her calf-length heeled boot, and then backing away with a polite smile. "Enjoy your time in Paris. Au revoir."

  "Au revoir," Poppy echoed, letting her eyes linger a few moments too long on the wiggle of the stranger's hips as she walked away. Poppy let out a long sigh, and walked back across the street.

  "Definitely glad I made this trip without Shannon," she said to herself with a grin, before handing the remainder of the cigarette to the beggar she had seen earlier, and walking toward to entrance to the Metro. She hoped she would be able to figure out the subway system.

  Metropolitan

  The Metro, it turned out, was extremely easy to maneuver once Poppy had actually figured out where she wanted to go. On a whim, she had chosen the Notre Dame Cathedral (feeling only slightly ashamed for looking like a tourist, standing in the terminal, flipping through her guidebook), and had ideas about trying to fit in a visit to the Eifel Tower. Paris on a whim—how marvelous was that idea? Something that wouldn't have happened with Shannon, who would have planned, weeks in advance, every day… and every site and museum they would visit… and how long they would stay at each place… and where they would eat afterward… and... and maybe she was just bitter.

  Once on the train, she grabbed a pole to steady herself and repeated her stop, "St. Michel Notre Dame," over and over in her mind, keeping her eye on the marquee; no matter how much she familiarized herself with the name, it would sound like gibberish when the stop was announced.

  She stepped out of the Metro station into the living streets of Paris's Fourth Arrondissement. Though she was a suburban girl, the busyness of major cities was not a new experience, but the bustle of France's capital was so different compared to that of San Francisco. Having lived her whole life a short drive from the latter, it was strange being so surrounded by people, but not seeing the prominent indications of the familiar hipster, homeless, and homosexual lifestyles. Rather than bizarre and expressively individualistic, the people walking purposefully along the streets all wore fashionable clothing and dignified expressions. For the first time in a few years, she actually felt self-conscious about her nose ring in a sea of metal-free faces.

  And it wasn't just the people, but the environment itself that distinguished the City on the Seine from the City by the Bay. The air was brisk, cold on an overcast September day, as opposed to San Francisco, with its notorious fog, and the taint of pollution and salty sea air. And there weren't steep hills, she thought, savoring the lack of soreness in her calves.

  Hearing a foreign language, however, she thought with a small smile; that was nothing new. Back home, though, it was usually Chinese or Vietnamese, or any other of a number of Asiatic languages, instead of French and a couple other European languages. Funny, she mused, how she could distinguish Japanese from Korean, though she didn't know a word of either, but couldn't tell Spanish from Italian.

  The woman from earlier strolled back into her mind… Poppy would have liked to know what her ethnic background was. She had the elegant features of East Asian women and the tawny skin of a South Asian person... Perhaps she was Thai or Laotian—really, she had no idea what physical traits the Laotians had. It was just a stab in the dark.

  Why was she still thinking about this exotic woman? It had been a mundane, albeit titillating, one-time interaction with a pretty stranger. If there was a chance for anything—and there probably wasn't—it had long-since passed. A chance at what, though? She wasn't going to have a cross-continental romance with some beautiful babe she had, in a manner that was so strange for her, approached on the street. And who knew if she was even into chicks? Rebound sex would be nice, though… a fling with a Frenchie.

  Ha.

  Dans la Cathédrale

  Poppy checked her watch and felt a pang of guilt. Was it bad that she had only been in the cathedral for half an hour and she already wanted out? It was one of those major points of interest that she, as a tourist, was supposed to be in awe of, but it was somehow just dreadfully boring. According to some placard she had glanced over, the building was four times older than the country she lived in; surely she could suffer through another fifteen minutes and find something worth enjoying.

  If she were here with Shannon, it would be a two-hour exploration—at least. She could imagine her ex-girlfriend stopping to "take in" each of the frescoes and have some sort of "spiritual experience" at one of the altars. Then she would look down, condescending as always, on Poppy for not "feeling it," or implying she didn't have the same cultural inclination—look down, literally, as at six-foot-two, Shannon was a foot taller than Poppy.

  She walked aimlessly around the cathedral, hands in her jacket pockets, obligatorily stopping to glare at statues. She half wished she could draw enough inspiration to think something other than it's just a goddamn church. Then again, she had never really stepped into a church on religious pretenses…

  She trailed off in her mind, fondly probing at the memories of her first love… before she even realized it was a love. Before she realized the feelings she was having, or that she was capable of having them. Before she knew she was a lesbian. Before she knew that being a lesbian was even a thing.

  Before all this, there was Lindsay.

  Lindsay

  Lindsay, with her black curls that spiraled down and bounced against her shoulders. Lindsay, with her heavy-lidded green eyes. Lindsay, with her rosebud lips, which she nervously and excitedly nibbled whenever Poppy talked about things that were beyond the scope of her conservative upbringing. Lindsay, who had the facial features that made for an adorable girl, with promise of a gorgeous woman. Lindsay, who had been the first to call her "Poppy"—accidentally, but she was too enamored with the girl to correct her, and so it had stuck. She wasn't fond of her real name, anyway.

  Poppy had been vaguely aware of Lindsay's existence for several years, as they attended the same elementary school and had been put in the same class at least once before, but it wasn't until she was in the fifth grade that Lindsay became a sort of obsession. Placed in the same home room at their new middle school, they shared a cluster of desks, and Poppy took to studying Lindsay's elegant profile, unsure of why she was doing this. I
t made her feel good. It was an unfamiliar and unnamable desire that manifested itself in the urge to become the girl's best friend.

  And so this became her goal. She started talking to Lindsay during their breaks, behaving, by contrast, amiable and outgoing to talk to this shy girl, in her button-up blouses, timidly holding her hands behind her back. Eventually the friendship evolved into hanging out at lunch, sitting side by side on a bench in the fifth grade quad, sometimes trading half of her sandwich—organic peanut butter and farmer's market jam on whole grain bread from a glass container—for half of Lindsay's, which was always made with brand-name peanut butter and jelly on crustless, diagonally-cut white bread. Poppy would feign interest in the things Lindsay liked and steered her friend toward her single passion: horses. It was an easy gap to bridge, fortunately, as Lindsay had an affinity for unicorns—along with dolphins, butterflies, rainbows, and other things that Poppy pretended not to believe belonged in a younger girl's sphere of enthusiasm.

  After a few months of effort, she attained the validating success of being invited over after school. She remembered her first experience at Lindsay's home: tidy, spotless, sterile, but intoxicating in that the entire environment smelled like Lindsay. Though she lived only a few blocks from the school, Lindsay's (rather uptight) mother insisted on driving her to and from daily. Maybe because the stay-at-home mother needed something to occupy her time, Poppy thought retrospectively. After removing her shoes at the door and placing them in a cubby hole, and a snack in the form of a glass of milk and cookies (arranged on a plate with a meticulousness that Poppy years later recognized as a clear sign of the mother's Obsessive Compulsive Disorder), it was time for homework. Poppy, who was generally left to her own devices after school, occupying afternoons with books and CDs in her home's absence of a television, and working on her assignments while lying in bed after dinner, didn't let on how awkward and strained this felt. She wanted to make a good impression on Lindsay and her hovering mother.