"Hi Poppy, bad news. The project is taking longer than I expected, so I'll have to stay late at the office tonight. As it would turn out, one of the women who we were sending out to assist at one of the foreign branches is feeling under the weather, so they're sending me in her stead. I leave tomorrow, so I need to pack tonight. I cannot express how sorry I am. I was looking forward to spending tonight with you. I know you're leaving tomorrow morning as well, but perhaps we could meet at our usual spot and still have the talk?"
Poppy deflated.
"That sucks" she began typing, and realized that not only was that a massive understatement, it was beneath the level of language she wanted to use with Rochelle. She deleted and started over. "I'm really sorry to hear that. I was looking forward to tonight as well." Another massive understatement. "I need to be at the airport by 9, so can we meet at 7?"
Rochelle responded shortly after. "Sounds perfect. My schedule is similar. I'll see you then, Poppy Seed. Again, I'm so sorry."
"It's okay," Poppy responded. It wasn't okay, but it had to be, didn't it? She hefted a sigh, and decided to head back to her hotel. She tried not to feel disappointed. It didn't work. She tried not to feel depressed. It didn't work. She tried not to cry. It was hard.
Sweet Dreams
Poppy lay in her bed and watched French television. She considered getting dinner, but she wasn't hungry. She considered touching herself, but she wasn't feeling lustful. She was disappointed, and it sucked. That was an understatement.
Rochelle messaged her: "I hope you sleep well, Poppy Seed. I'll see you in the morning."
Poppy messaged back: "Sweet dreams, Momo."
Poppy continued to lie in her bed and watch French television. She again considered getting dinner, but still wasn't hungry. She again considered touching herself, but she still wasn't feeling lustful. She was depressed and it was fucking awful.
Delayed gratification, right?
Breakfast Date
Saturday
Poppy woke up at six, showered, checked around the hotel room to make sure she had gathered everything, and grabbed her suitcase and backpack. She walked down to the main lobby, and decided to check out early, and save herself a trip back after breakfast with Rochelle. She arrived at the brasserie at quarter-till, but the doors weren't open yet. The sign, if she was interpreting it correctly, said they wouldn't be open until seven, so Poppy waited patiently with her luggage. The sky was threatening rain, so she opened her umbrella in case it started before she could get inside.
The man let her in at seven, and she set herself up at a table, facing the door, watching for Rochelle. Five minutes passed, and she ordered herself an espresso. At ten minutes past, she sent Rochelle a text, politely inquiring as to whether she was on her way.
No response.
Rain started to fall outside, and Poppy watched puddles build on the sidewalk, feeling a slight panic that made her eyes want to do with same thing. People began walking by with umbrellas. At twenty-five minutes past, she ordered another coffee, with no appetite for breakfast. Without the sweetness of the orange juice or the savory flavor of the croissant, there was only the bitter of the espresso.
A few minutes before seven forty-five, her phone vibrated. She half-heartedly checked. Momo.
"Poppy, I am so, so sorry. I slept through my alarm this morning, and I'm afraid I won't be able to make it for our breakfast date. Please, please forgive me."
"It's okay, I understand." She almost couldn't type—her hands were shaking. She took a deep breath, steeling herself against the tears that she refused to shed.
"I'd still like to have that discussion, if you're still interested. Perhaps we could talk on the phone tomorrow?"
"Sure," Poppy said, though she had lost hope. It had seemed like it was too good to be true, so of course it had been.
Rochelle again apologized, and Poppy again told her it was okay. At eight, Poppy hailed a taxi, and asked to be taken to the airport.
The Pit in Poppy's Pocket
It rained through entirety of the taxi ride. Poppy meandered through the checkpoints, and while the absence of crowds would usually be a good note, it only meant that Poppy would be waiting even longer in the terminal for her flight, which was still three hours away.
When she emptied her pockets to go through the metal detector and be patted down by a security agent who was pretty—though definitely no Rochelle, damn her—she found something small and rough at the bottom of her pocket. She looked at it, confused for a moment, until she recognized the pit from the peach she had purchased at the market below Rochelle's flat. She considered leaving it in the bin when she was allowed to refill her pockets, but for some stupid reason she couldn't fathom, she shoved it back into her pocket.
As she was sitting in one of the many chairs at her gate, her phone rang. Rochelle?
No, her mother.
"Hi, Mom."
"Hey honey, your father and I are still picking you up, right?"
"No," Poppy said. "Jay offered to do it. He's going to borrow a friend's car." This was a lie. She wasn't even sure why she was lying. She just wanted to be home, in her apartment, and not have to interact with anyone.
"All right. Are you okay?" her mother asked.
"Yeah," Poppy lied again. "Just tired, you know?"
"Okay Pippa, we'll see you when you get back. Bon Voyage!"
"Thanks, Mom. Bye."
Poppy looked out the large window at the rain falling on the runway. She had three hours to kill. She had a lot of feelings to kill. She had some brain cells to kill. She made her way to a bar to kill the remaining wad of Euros in her wallet.
Amber, Clear, Haze
Beer.
It was okay. Rochelle would call her tomorrow, and they would work it out. Long distance relationships had worked for plenty of people. If anything, the distance would make it all the sweeter. Rochelle, her sweet Momo, was much too tender and sincere to yank Poppy around. Rochelle wanted something serious, and so what if Poppy had just gotten out of a long-term relationship? She was ready for something new!
Momo and Poppy Seed: a match made in heaven—or Paris. Same thing!
Beer.
But what the fuck, though? Canceling twice in a row? She had fucking ruined Poppy's last day in Paris. What did she see Poppy as, some fun little tryst? She had treated her like a goddamn escort, god damn it. Bought Poppy dinner, got her liquored up, fucked her, and sent her on her merry little way in the morning. Could've at least thrown a couple hundred Euros Poppy's way for her fucking trouble.
Poppy pulled out the peach stone from her pocket. Trash. Why was she holding on to a piece of trash? Following her better judgment, she didn't chuck it across the bar, but she left it there, arm's length away. She'd throw it in the next trashcan she saw.
Bitch.
Vodka.
Maybe she was being a bit rash. Rochelle would call her tomorrow. No, Poppy would call her tomorrow. First thing. This would work. It had to work. It was too perfect not to. Poppy could quit her job, and follow Rochelle wherever she was living. Rochelle made enough money to support both of them until Poppy found a job. It might be hard to find a job working with horses in Paris… it was a city, and she didn't speak the language, but the countryside couldn't be too far away. They would make it work!
She leaned over and snatched the peach pit before someone mistook it for garbage and threw it away.
Yes, they would make it work. Cheers to the future!
Vodka.
She was a dirty article of clothing on Rochelle's floor. Used, soiled, tossed amongst others. It was all just a beautiful façade. She had taken Poppy's panties as a trophy. Poppy had made it too easy for her. All Rochelle had to do after was pretend to be too busy to see her, make excuses for a day, and Poppy would be off her back. Done. They lived continents apart! They'd never see each other again. Brava, Rochelle.
Brava.
Beer.
Okay, so whatever. You know what? No regrets. S
he got played like a French horn, but she got to fuck something gorgeous. So fucking gorgeous. And it had been good! Really good! She got her fling, her French fling, and now she was completely over Cheating Whore. She had an adventure in Paris.
So what if her life wasn't a romance novel? Who wants that anyway, really? No, her life was one of those inspirational novels about characters finding themselves through struggle. Woman versus Self. She came, she saw, she conquered! The heroine returns home from her journey stronger than before.
That was her—Poppy the Protagonist.
She looked at her phone, and her eyes widened. How had three hours passed so quickly? She got up quickly, not anticipating the effects of pouring five drinks in an empty stomach. After she regained her balance, and the airport stopped swirling around her, she stumbled toward her gate.
People were already beginning to board the plane, so Poppy ambled to the back of the line, ticket in hand. She trudged to her row, eyes a bit bleary, and had to have someone help her lift her carry-on to the compartment above her seat. She thanked the stranger, and almost fell over the legs of the other two passengers between her and her seat by the window.
She knocked out before the flight attendants finished their safety spiel.
Au Revoir, Hello
Poppy woke up twelve hours later feeling groggy and stiff to the sound of the pilot discussing the weather and temperature in San Francisco. She looked out the window, and saw the familiar fog of the city. The passengers to her side were speaking in rapid French, and she for a moment almost thought she was in Paris again. No, here they were the tourists.
The plane touched down, and Poppy was antsy to get off the plane, but as she was sitting near the back of the cabin, she had to wait for nearly everyone else to head out before her. She grabbed her backpack, pulled down her travel suitcase, and waited for the mass of people stretching their legs and bumbling forward.
"Welcome to San Francisco," a flight attendant said brightly as she neared the exit. Poppy grunted in response. As she stepped into the airport, she saw people with signs, hugging families, reuniting lovers, and she was both relieved and upset that she had neither waiting for her. She wanted to be alone, yes, but she also wished she wasn't alone. In some illogical way, she wanted Rochelle to be there, waiting to run into her arms and embrace her. She wanted Rochelle to be there with her, not… wherever it was her company had sent her out to. If they had sent her out at all, and it wasn't just some big lie.
And what if Rochelle actually followed through and texted her? She would play it by ear. Poppy definitely was not going to be initiating, and would have to keep herself guarded, in case Rochelle just wanted to keep her around to be, as she had put it, a "plaything." Poppy ran a hand over her face, and made her way to baggage claim.
Her plan had originally been to go straight home and crash into her bed, but after sleeping for half a day, and because of the different time zones, arriving in the early afternoon California time, Poppy knew there was no use trying to sleep. Maybe she would make Jay go to a bar with her. Day drinking would be a good way to transition from her lifestyle in Paris.
Poppy had to get Rochelle off her mind—she was seeing her everywhere. A stranger walking in front of her looked just like Rochelle from behind. A francophone voice in the crowd sounded just like Rochelle's. She saw her face out of the corner of her eye. Poppy was killing herself with longing. Maybe she would text Rochelle later that evening… she knew she shouldn't. Maybe she would, though.
Poppy decided to keep her eyes focused on the ground, and when she arrived at the baggage claim, she stared mindlessly at the suitcases coming along the conveyor belt. After several minutes, she saw hers, yanked it onto the ground, and began wheeling toward the exit.
She heard someone say her name, and touch her shoulder. She hadn't told anybody to come—
Rochelle.
Poppy blinked hard, and her head spun for a minute. She had lost it. She had really fucking lost it. She reached out and touched Rochelle's arm. The feel of that skin was unmistakably Rochelle's.
"Why are you here? I mean, how?" Poppy asked, wondering for a moment if she was still sleeping on the plane. She felt Rochelle's arms wrap around her in a tight squeeze, and feeling dazed, she limply wrapped her arms back. They lingered in the embrace for several moments, Poppy's arm slowly tightening as she allowed herself more and more to believe that this really was Rochelle here, in her arms.
"This is where my company sent me. I'll be working at our new branch in San Francisco. I… I didn't know you lived in California."
"You're really here," Poppy said, still attempting to reaffirm her grasp on reality. "I don't know what to say."
"You don't need to say anything," Rochelle said gently, placing her hands on Poppy's cheeks, and bringing her lips against Poppy's. Poppy's mind filled with lightning and cymbal crashes and the airport disappeared around her. Her hands found Rochelle's hips, and she kissed back. "But if you'd still like to have that talk…"
"Yes," Poppy said.
"Would you like to grab coffee somewhere? You can show me around and be my tour guide. I don't need to be in the office until Monday," Rochelle said with a wry smile, before giving Poppy another deep kiss. "Or, if you would prefer, I have a reservation at a hotel in the city…"
"I live about twenty minutes from here..." Poppy said. "What do you think?"
"How about…" Rochelle said, with an amused grin, "… we play Rock-Paper-Scissors for it?"
Poppy chuckled and raised a fist on the plane of her open palm. They both threw scissors, and Rochelle playfully pressed the crotches of their fingers together before pulling Poppy in for another kiss, and lacing their fingers together. "Let's go to your place, Poppy Seed."
The Peach and the Poppy
They didn't speak through the taxi ride, partially because Poppy was speechless, partially because she didn't want to say anything while wrapped in Rochelle's arms. Poppy's roommates were out, so with the house to themselves, they fell immediately into Poppy's bed. The two women, both jetlagged, made love leisurely, communicating only through moans and mutterings. Once they had both found satisfaction, they lay above the covers, Rochelle on her back, one arm cradling Poppy, who had draped an arm and a leg over Rochelle and rested her head on Rochelle's chest, her steady heartbeat sounding in Poppy's ear, hot bodies cooling in the chill air.
"Why didn't you tell me you were coming here?" Poppy asked, finally finding words.
"I didn't have much time, for one—I was texting you in between a lot of work—and I didn't want to get your hopes up… America is a very large country, so I assumed it was unlikely that we would be situated close to one another," Rochelle said, occupying the fingers of her free hand with fixing Poppy's bangs. "I did intend to bring it up when I called you, however. I really am sorry about abandoning you twice in a row."
"I was upset for a moment," Poppy said, thinking back to the airport bar, "but I got over it. And you're here now, so none of that matters."
She would have to introduce Jay to Rochelle soon. She would surprise him by telling him she wanted to show him a souvenir she had brought back with her. She laughed to herself; it would be such a good prank. She would have to introduce Rochelle to her roommates first, though—she couldn't hide Rochelle in her room forever. Then again, she would be happy to never leave her bed and Rochelle's embrace… That did remind her, however.
"So… Rochelle… Momo… how long are you actually going to be staying in America?"
"Well, they're going to keep me here for at least three weeks, and if it goes well, I will probably stay much longer."
"All right," Poppy said.
"And, well…" Rochelle trailed off. "Can I be honest with you?"
Poppy looked up into Rochelle's eyes, smiling. "Of course."
"I think I'm going to be sticking around for a while."
Fin
About the Author
Subsisting off of coffee, cigarettes and gin, Caesar is a hope
less dreamer who quit his day job to pursue his writing career. A Silicon Valley local, he has earned some acclaim as a spoken word poet, and the resident writer at a few open mic nights and dive bars in the South Bay Area. When not writing or California Dreaming, he can usually be found hanging around with his lesbian best friend, Debbie, making puns of understated brilliance.
https://www.facebook.com/caesarjmkent
The Peach and the Poppy Page 13
