Chapter Text
The brief reverberations of the tiny door chime were quickly absorbed by a strict combination of aged wood and paper. Dried autumn leaves swept themselves onto the well-worn greeting mat, trailing behind a pair of stylish, long-lace runners. The few heads present between the tight shelves diverted from their reading to quickly orient their focus toward the storefront, where a young woman sporting a wild tuff of chestnut-brown hair stood tall. Despite the brisk weather she only wore a grey crewneck with a worn-out logo and a pair of loose brown slacks. The only redeeming quality of the woman’s outfit was the thick, auburn scarf wrapped tightly around her neck.
The unusually perky woman flashed a smile to the first face she laid eyes upon; an old man seated comfortably in a large armchair. The novel in his hands was slightly lowered from his face to leave his eyes unobstructed to meet hers.
He gently smiled back, and let his eyes lower back to his novel.
On cue, the rest of the heads in the store turned back to their current tasks. Or books, rather.
Now fully aware the attention was no longer on herself, the brunette navigated through the columns of bookshelves to make a beeline for the back of the store. As she traveled further into the depths of the small bookstore, the sunlight was quickly replaced by the warmth of the old store's incandescent light bulbs. Unlike the light, however, the absence of customers in this section was not recuperated.
Perfect.
Just to be absolutely sure, however, Lena took one last peak around the bookshelves around her.
After the last aisle was confirmed to be empty, Lena’s lips instinctively pinched upward into a satisfied smirk. She kneeled down towards a relatively insignificant spot of the wooden floor, remaining careful not to creak the old, dusty floorboards. It only took minor pressure from her index and middle finger to flip an unsuspicious floorboard upright from its orderly horizontal position among its comrades.
Her eyes glistened with anticipation as she carefully lifted the dusty floorboard up away from its intended setting.
Her anticipation quickly dissipated, making way for panicked confusion once her eyes laid upon what laid in the cavity below the floorboard.
What she expected to see was her battered-and-bruised (but still her favorite) copy of “The Great Gatsby”, which she was currently in the process of reading.
What she actually found was a largely empty wooden cavity, save a single bright-green sticky note that sat among the dust on the bottom. She quickly lifted her head back into the store. Her head whipped around to assess her surroundings again with a newfound layer of dismay.
This outcome should not have been possible, she was too careful to get caught in the act. Was there a hidden camera somewhere? Or even worse, a peep hole? The woman scurried all over the area, shifting books aside and examining several wooden surfaces for any evidence of an observer, but to no avail.
Only a few seconds were spared in a silent panic before the woman’s eyes widened in realization.
The note.
She quickly crawled over towards the rectangular-shaped gap between the floorboards. At the bottom the sticky note still sat. On the front of the note sat two lines of flowing cursive written in blue ink, which became visible after lifting it into the light.
Is this really necessary?
Front desk.
As her eyes glazed over the last parting sentence, the woman’s face contorted into a painful grimace. Not only did her secret spot get found out, it got found out by the staff of all people.
Upon deeper thought, she didn’t have to reveal herself to the clerk. There are more copies of the book in different stores or even the library. Announcing herself to the clerk would not only be an admission of guilt, it would be an admission of guilt that everyone in the store would see. Thrusting herself into the headlights of embarrassment wasn’t that desirable of a cost for one novel.
Yeah. Maybe she would pass on that one.
Before placing the note back where it lay before, the woman turned it over to see if her accuser cared to write anything else on the back. She was met with more blue ink.
Brown eyes. Crazy brown hair. Red scarf.
I know who you are. Don’t even think about it.
The woman instinctively ran her hands through her permanently windblown hair, then her auburn scarf still wrapped around her neck. She let out a quiet chuckle and shook her head in disbelief.
“My hair’s not that crazy, ya’ bloke,” she mumbled to herself.
—
As the woman passed through the isles of bookshelves, she took notice that the store was seemingly empty now, which arguably worked in her favor. The afternoon sun shone through the street-facing windows in the front of the store. The dust in the air reflected the light, creating the illusion of glowing pillars of light spanning across the storefront.
The front counter was located beside the front door. Another young woman of similar age sat on a stool behind the counter. Her back was propped up against the bookshelf behind her as she intently read a novel of her own. She wore a baggy knit green sweater under an apron with one-too-many front pockets, likely part of her uniform. Her dark, long hair was contained within a messy bun, with loose wispy tendrils adorning her face. The sunlight shining through the window behind her revealed a tint of brown in her hair, and highlighted her flawless pale skin. Her light-brown eyes were supported by a cute pair of wire-framed reading glasses, which had fallen half-way down the bridge of her sharp nose.
The brown-haired woman inwardly pinched herself, snapping her out of her daydream.
The clerk’s eyes didn’t leave her book as the brown-haired woman cautiously approached the desk. In fact, they didn’t even leave after the latter posted herself at the other end of the desk either.
The brown-haired woman quietly stood at the foot of the desk, staring at the clerk’s eyes in hopes of them reciprocating the gesture, but to no avail.
The store’s silence was deafening.
“Uhm… hi,” politely greeted the brown-haired woman. Her chirpy voice was effortlessly loud, and layered with a moderately thick Cockney accent.
After a few more seconds of anticipated silence, the clerk lowered the novel in her hand, laying it facedown on the countertop and languidly dragged her eyes up to meet the Brit’s. Her expression was one of expectation and a hint of smugness.
The Brit felt as if she was staring into the eyes of an angel that would deliver her to salvation, and the devil who was ready to strike her down. All at the same time.
The next several moments continued with further silence, the two of them still exchanging stares from across the counter.
The Brit finally sighed in defeat.
“You’re the one who left the note, yeah?”
The clerk promptly made a show of tilting her head and furrowing her eyebrows, smugly feigning confusion. She hummed thoughtfully before responding.
“A note? Where?”
In contrast with the Brit’s, the clerk’s deeper voice was as soft as silk, supporting a smooth French accent.
The Brit could only offer the clerk a deadpan expression. Really digging this one in, wasn’t she?
“Ehm,” the Brit cleared her throat and averted her eyes downward in mild embarrassment, “In the spot,” she mumbled.
“The spot?”
The clerk continued her antics by crossing her arms, leaning back, and looking towards the ceiling; seemingly lost in thought. The Brit could only pray that the latter ended her charade soon.
“Tell me. Where is this ‘spot’?” The clerk leaned forward on the counter, placing her weight onto her elbows. Her face was now unable to hide her smug grin. “I don’t quite remember.”
“Y’know…” the Brit started, fidgeting her thumbs.
“Mhm?”
“...In the back.”
“The back! Where in the back specifically? There are just so many spots I can think of!”
“Under the floor,” the Brit reluctantly answered.
“Under the floor!” the clerk recoiled in mock horror, her palm resting against her breastbone, “Why on earth would I leave a note there?”
The Brit threw her head up and groaned, “Are you quite finished?”
“Under our precious floorboards!” the clerk only intensified with the dramatics, completely ignoring the Brit’s exasperated remark entirely, “Why would I ever think to do such a thing?”
The Brit could only let out one final sigh before conceding.
“I had a book in there,” she answered, defeat evident in her tone, “And you found it.”
Finally getting the admission of guilt she wanted, the clerk let a smirk settle on her lips. She nodded with a hum of satisfaction.
“Why did you put it there?”
The Brit offered a small shrug, “‘Cause I wanted to read it.”
The clerk furrowed her eyebrows in confusion, lightly blowing a strand of hair from her eye.
“And you couldn’t read it when it was on the shelf?” she asked.
The Brit’s eyes carefully lifted to meet the clerk’s once more. Despite her previous antics, the clerk’s eyes held no malice, only innocent curiosity.
Another nonchalant shrug, but this time alongside a cheeky smile. “Didn’t want someone else to take it.”
The clerk raised a single eyebrow. With a questioning glance, she tapped her nails against the metal cash register beside her to remind the Brit of its presence.
The Brit chuckled and revealed the contents of her pockets. A smartphone with a cracked screen and a frayed lanyard holding a set of keys.
Her expression made a gamely attempt to look sheepish, but humiliation bled through its cracks.
“Not exactly rollin’ in cash here, love.”
The clerk’s eyes couldn’t help but soften at the Brit’s admission. The next couple of seconds were filled with the jingling of keys as the Brit stuffed her keys back into her pockets.
Before the Brit could re-establish eye contact, the clerk looked down towards the hidden novel peeking out from the compartment adjacent to her knee.
The clerk gingerly lifted the book from under the countertop, placing it on the edge of the counter closest to herself.
“'The Great Gatsby'…” keeping her hand atop the book’s simplistic cover, the clerk’s eyes scanned over the gold-embossed lettering with restrained wonder, “Tell me about it.”
Although eternally grateful for the conversation’s change of direction. The Brit tilted her head and folded her eyebrows inward, slightly taken aback.
“You work at a bookstore, and you haven’t read 'The Great Gatsby'?”
“I…” the clerk’s cheeks flushed a light pink, and her face squished into an adorable pout, “Haven’t gotten to it.”
All that answer served to do was make the Brit more curious. This consequence became quite apparent with the latter’s weight now on the countertop, her eyes now narrowed in curiosity. The clerk conveniently found herself enamored with the London streets outside.
“And why is that?”
The clerk crossed her arms and leaned back against the bookshelf behind her; eyes still aimed anywhere but at the woman across from her. Perhaps in embarrassment, or perhaps something else entirely.
“It’s not exactly the easiest book to read.”
The Brit’s expression was first taken aback in realization before easing into an understanding smile.
“Well, love. I think your English is quite good.”
The clerk’s lips curled upward into a small smile, “Flattery won’t get you out of trouble, chérie,” she responded, amusedly reciprocating the term of endearment.
The Brit’s neck went slack to gravity as the two of them shared a chuckle. She then brought her head back up to rest against her palm, a soft smile gracing her lips.
“What’s your name?” asked the Brit.
The clerk’s eyes quickly darted from the countertop to meet the Brit’s hazel pools once more. All she could offer the Brit was a bewildered look leaning toward the far side of apprehension.
All the Brit offered back was a wider smile; reassuring and sincere. Her previous statement establishing itself as only a gentle request; with no pressure to be answered.
From her position leaned against the bookshelf behind her, the clerk frantically turned her head to scan the rest of the store, finding the only presence in the isles to be dust-covered novels and whirring light bulbs.
She brought her eyes back to the Brit’s hopeful gaze, which hadn't moved a muscle since her request’s initial utterance. The two of them spent the next few moments staring at one another in silence; the clerk’s eyebrows still left slightly raised.
After several moments of ponderance, the clerk let out an amused huff, shaking her head in disbelief and visibly relaxing.
“It’s Amélie,” she softly responded, “and yours?”
The Brit’s hopeful smile quickly brightened into one of delight.
“Amélie…” The Brit tested the name on her tongue, “Such a nice name.”
Amélie rolled her eyes, yet still cracked a smile, “Your name, chérie.”
The Brit chuckled, “Lena,” she simply replied.
Amélie offered a satisfied huff, her smile just a tad bit wider. “It suits you.”
“Oh, really?” Lena playfully responded, “What does that mean?”
Amélie’s smile converted to a smirk “You’re lively, overzealous.”
“Is that a compliment, love?”
“It is whatever you want it to be.”
“Well,” the Brit pushed her lips forward to form a cute pout, “I think I heard at least a hint of interest in there.”
Amélie chuckled, “Whatever you say, chérie.”
The two of them chuckled amongst themselves before losing themselves in each other’s content gazes once more.
Lena was the first to break eye-contact, averting her eyes toward the novel still on the countertop.
“So, the book,”
Amélie blinked a few times, whizzing herself back to reality. She gave the Brit a curious look, awaiting the second half of her statement.
“Want me to catch you up to speed?”
All Amélie could offer in response was an expression further riddled with confusion.
“To where I’m at in the book,” said the Brit, like it was the simplest conclusion to arrive at. “You want to know about it, no? I’ll catch you up, and we’ll read it together.”
Amélie’s eyebrows raised in surprise, her eyes never leaving the Brit’s, who herself seemed all-too-comfortable with her offer. Analyzing the latter’s expression for any sign of deception, Amélie only found shining sincerity in the Brit’s dilated pupils.
Despite her analysis bearing no fruit, her eyes still narrowed in suspicion.
“I’m not a good reader.”
“That won’t be a problem, love.”
“How is that not a problem if we’re supposed to be reading this together?”
“I’ll read it for the two of us!” The Brit flashed an excited grin, “You can follow along with another copy, or you can just tune into ‘Lena Radio’. Your choice!”
Amélie instinctively crossed her arms over her midriff.
“Why?”
“‘Cause you wanna know what it's about,” The Brit’s cheeks tinted a tad warmer and she began twiddling her thumbs, “...and maybe you could keep the book up here for me in return?”
Finally uncovering the Brit’s hidden agenda, Amélie’s glare softened into pleasant surprise, then into an amused chuckle.
“Quite the negotiator, aren’t you?”
The Brit giggled.
“I’ll take that cute smile of yours as a yes?” The Brit was quick to respond and offered her hand across the table.
Amélie rolled her eyes with a smile.
“Careful, chérie,” Amelie feignedly taunted as she shook the Brit’s hand, “You're treading dangerous waters.”
The Brit’s smile dampened slightly, but her eyes still shone with a glimmer of hope.
“Are you biting?”
Amélie couldn’t help the edges of her lips from pinching upwards. Their hands never retracted from their initial touch- now comfortably nestled amongst one another atop the counter. The two barely noticed, however, their eyes refusing to break contact.
“Perhaps.”
Lena giggled and gave Amélie’s hands a delicate squeeze before releasing them entirely. She then clapped her hands together.
“Alright then!”
The Brit suddenly sprung into action, pacing herself slightly farther away from the countertop, as if preparing to give a grand presentation, “Might as well start now, then.”
She now stood under the rays of sunlight projecting through the front windows of the store. The setting sun lay against the interlacing of dusty glass and wooden sash, projected a pattern of chestnut brown and dark-roast mahogany across the Brit’s wavy hair. It also highlighted the rosy tint still present on her slightly-tanned skin, and the soft hazelnut brown in her eyes that shone with a youthful excitement.
Wordlessly playing along, Amélie placed her weight onto her elbows and laid her hands atop one another on the countertop. Watching and listening attentively with an amused smirk.
“So, it started off with this wanker named Nick, right…”
—
From that point on, the two of them formed somewhat of a routine.
Amélie worked at the bookstore every weekday until noon, so the two of them always waited until the latest hours of her shift to begin their reading sessions.
“So he’s just not going to tell her?!”
Amélie’s furious tone cut through the mostly-empty bookstore. She now halted her sweeping, both of her hands now grasping the broom in an iron grip. The warm evening sun illuminates half of the woman’s face and the rest of the store’s interior with an intense orange glow.
“Stop laughing and tell me!” The Frenchwoman roared.
Amélie whipped around to face the couch, where her British companion was comfortably laid across. Lena’s legs were crossed and propped over one of the armrests, while the back of her head rested against the other. Her face was currently not visible, as it was buried within the pages of the novel held in her hands in a feeble attempt to hide her fit of giggles.
“Love, we just started!”
“So why did you start there?!”
“Where else do I start?” The Brit now uncovered her face, her laughter-contorted expression now entirely exposed to the evening sun, “We stopped right before this part last time!”
“Why the hell would you stop there?!”
“‘Cause if I didn’t, you wouldn't have let me stop!”
“Putain!” Amélie cursed loudly as she averted her gaze upward in annoyance, the broom in her hands threatening to break from her murderous wrath, “Keep reading!”
The Brit still hadn’t stopped laughing, her mouth which she forced closed now released obnoxious snort-like noises. Once realizing the Brit wasn’t going to continue until her laughter ceased, the clerk let out an annoyed huff and relegated herself back to sweeping.
“I didn’t take you to be an emotional reader, love,” the Brit teased after regaining herself.
“I’m going to kill you.”
Lena let out a bubbly giggle before collecting herself and beginning to read aloud to the fuming Frenchwoman once more.
—
“Lena?”
Lena looked up from her book to meet Amélie’s eyes peeking around the bookshelf, offering her a polite questioning look. The latter looked behind her in precaution before turning back to the Brit, the excited gleam in her eyes threatening to spread onto her forced-neutral expression.
“The store is empty.”
The Brit’s expression brightened into knowing excitement as she picked herself up from the floor and dusted herself off.
“‘Came over awfully quick once that door closed, huh love?” The Brit could help herself from teasing her companion as she assessed her surroundings to ensure nothing was left behind.
An amused smile worked its way onto the Frenchwoman’s face as rolled her eyes. Instead of responding, she simply turned her back to the Brit to move towards the front.
Giggling to herself, the latter followed suit with the “The Great Gatsby” held between her fingers. A bright red bookmark stuck out just past a quarter into the dense collection of pages.
—
“Yeah, sorry love, but there’s no chance.”
“I am a whole head taller than you, chérie,” the Frenchwoman’s eyes remained closed and her body leaned against the bookshelf behind the counter. “You wouldn’t be able to touch me.”
Lena, who sat directly next to the smug Frenchwoman, rolled her eyes. She almost committed herself to continue reading the novel in her hand, only for a devious glint to crawl its way into her eyes.
She quietly placed the bookmark into their current page, and placed the closed book onto the counter. She then turned to her companion.
“You’re barely half a head taller than me,” she countered, “Plus, I’ve been in plenty of tussles before.” She briefly paused to scan Amélie’s frame from top-to-bottom with a combative smirk, “You, on the other hand, look like your greatest fight was finals week.”
Amélie’s eyes ripped open as she sat up, her brown pupils glaring lethal daggers at the Brit. “Why you-”
Lena’s giddy laughter was only exacerbated with her successful avoidance of the Frenchwoman’s attempts to smack the upside of her head. The two proceeded to wrestle with one another behind the counter; both combatants fighting for dominance.
“So you’re admitting I’m-”
“You’re losing right now, are you not?!” A now-infuriated Amélie refuted the Brit’s preposterous accusation before it could be finished. The Brit squealed as the two of them continued to playfully struggle into the evening.
The two of them did not reach an agreement by the end of the night.
—
“What made you wanna move to London?”
The Brit’s curious inquiry interjected in the middle of her narration. She was currently seated where Amélie usually resided during most of the day’s waking hours; behind the front counter. Afternoon daylight washed over her tanned features, highlighting her density of freckles located above her cheekbones. Her worn-out red runners were propped atop the counter, and her back was slouched against the bookshelf behind her. The store emptied out earlier today, so the two of them decided to take the risk and started before the sun began to set.
The Frenchwoman looked the Brit’s way as she moved another book from the stack in her arms into its designated spot on the shelf. Her expression was one of slight surprise, but with a backdrop of comfort after several peaceful evenings spent with the Brit
The two of them have spent so many hours together, yet know so little about one another. These types of questions have been on the tips of both of their tongues for days now.
From observing the Brit’s gaze still focused on the open novel in her hands, Amélie saw that the question had no expectations attached to it. She could simply choose to stay silent, and the Brit would quickly go back to reading the book aloud to her once more.
Her attention shifted back to her task as she answered. She slid another book into its intended slot.
“My parents were both offered a job.”
The Brit hummed in acknowledgement. Another book found its way into its spot.
“And you?” Amélie reciprocated in kind.
“Born and raised!” The Brit gave an aimless mock salute to the dusty air surrounding her relaxed figure.
The Frenchwoman paused her task to allow herself an amused chuckle.
Without missing a beat, the Brit began reading aloud once more.
—
The shrill ring of the store’s door chime abruptly interrupted the excited conversation between the two women seated at the counter, who briefly paused to turn towards the front entrance.
The newcomer cautiously avoided eye-contact with both women, maintaining their neutral gaze towards the back of the store.
It was likely the right move, judging as one of the women was glaring at her with unfiltered hatred. Her arm snaked its way between the newcomer and the clerk on the other side of the counter.
Not even pausing to adjust to the store’s incandescent lighting from the bright sun outside, Lena then made a beeline straight for the back of the store.
Upon seeing the Brit, Amélie’s eyes quickly laser-focused onto the dissected novel in front of her, which she was currently tasked with rebinding. Her expression maintained neutrality throughout, and made no attempt to look back up as the Brit’s quick footfalls were heard passing by.
Once Lena was out of sight, the woman seated at the other end of the counter retracted her arm and turned back to Amélie, whose gaze also followed suit. Her excited smile was back, and the two childhood friends continued their thrilling french-spoken chatter.
As the window-filtered sunlight made way for artificial orange light, Lena found herself in a familiar spot at the back of the store.
After ensuring that no one was nearby, she slowly kneeled down and carefully removed the floorboard from its inconspicuous spot among the others. The familiar copy of “The Great Gatsby” that sat in the cavity underneath.
She noticed another bright-green sticky note; this time pinched within the novel’s pages alongside the bright red bookmark. She gingerly lifted the book out from its crevice into the warm light and plucked out the note, unfolding it while the novel sat on the floor in front of her crossed legs.
She is leaving at 4.
Don’t even think about reading past chapter six without me.
A secretive smile tore through Lena’s stoic mask. Quickly refolding the note and stuffing it into her pocket, Lena laid her back against the wall and opened the novel to read.
She didn’t dare to keep it open once she saw chapter six.
—
“Why here?”
Although she was facing away from the Amélie, the Brit leaned turned her head away from the novel to the side, wordlessly inquiring the former for more context.
The Frenchwoman was currently in the midst of rebinding another torn-up novel on the front counter. Her eyes remained on-task as she acknowledged her companion’s subtle request.
“The store. Why do you come here every day?”
Her question held no malice, only an offer to hold a light conversation. After several weeks of the two spending their evening together, this was the first time Amélie decided to initiate the conversation.
Lena was lucky to be facing the opposite direction from the Frenchwoman, as the latter would have slapped her upside-down after seeing the content smile now gracing her features. The sun set many moments ago, the lone lightbulb hanging between the two being the only source of light aside from the leaking nighttime lights from numerous apartment windows across the street. Lena wedged her index finger between the pages to mark their spot as she collapsed to book onto her lap, and leaned back into the couch with a thoughtful hum.
Amélie continued diligently rebinding her book as she patiently awaited the Brit’s answer. After a few moments of silence, Amélie caught the Brit instinctively shrugging her shoulders in her periphery.
“I like the vibe of the place,” Lena eventually answered, taking in the empty haven around her, “Quaint n’ calm. Keeps me outta’ trouble too!”
The Frenchwoman only nodded silently in acknowledgement, as Lena sounded like she was intending to continue.
“Not exactly the nicest at home,” she laid her arm on top of the backrest of the couch to peek at the clerk, “Doesn’t have a cute Frenchie waitin’ for me either,” she added with a cheeky wink.
Amélie briefly paused her task to meet the Brit’s gaze. Her previously guilty expression evaporated into an annoyed glare before getting back to work.
The Brit let out a quiet giggle before flopping back onto the couch, watching the ceiling fan above her spin idly.
Amélie’s mouth opened while she snipped the end of the binding thread. Another curious question was on the tip of her tongue, but her mouth closed again. On the other side of the couch backrest, Lena laid, the back of her wrist lazily resting atop her forehead. An uncharacteristic concern painting her typically cheery demeanor.
Despite the seemingly calm atmosphere between the two, the organ contained in both of their chests was slamming against their rib cages, desperately screaming at both of them to stop.
“Why a bookstore?” asked the Brit in mock disbelief.
Just like that, the line was crossed by the Brit, all that was left for Amélie to do was reciprocate. The latter chuckled to herself and shook her head.
The two of them have already crossed so many lines already. What was one more?
“Why not a bookstore?” She eventually countered back, cracking a cheeky smile.
The Brit barked out a quiet laugh, the tension between the two rapidly dissipating.
“You can most definitely do better, Love.”
Amélie continued pulling the string through the hole made through the pages.
“Really now?”
“Don’t think I didn’t notice the Imperial lanyard in your back pocket.”
Amélie’s hands froze in the middle of her task. Her lips now pressed together forming a tight smile. The Brit still remained out of her line of sight, laying on the other side of the couch backrest.
“Ah, oui.”
A short pause ensued between the two. Lena now hesitated after detecting the well-covered strain in her companion’s voice.
“Too deep?”
Amélie hummed in ponderance.
“Non, non, you just caught me off guard,” she sighed, “Your realization was inevitable, anyway.”
Lena shuffled into a more comfortable position.
“You don’t actually have trouble reading English, do you?”
Amélie’s somber smile morphed into one shadowed in guilt.
“Non, I don’t.”
“Why lie about it?”
The warm orange light of the store accentuated the furious blush creeping onto Amélie’s cheeks. She suddenly averted her eyes away, even though Lena still lay behind the backrest.
“You wouldn’t have read Great Gatsby to me if I didn’t,” she mumbled.
The shop soon filled with the Brit’s snorts of laughter. The Frenchwoman, whose cheeks were now entirely red, could only cross her arms and pout.
“You could’ve just asked!” The Brit squeaked in-between chuckles.
Not at all sharing in Lena’s amusement, Amélie’s lips remained pouted in embarrassment and she continued her silence.
After several moments, the Brit’s snorts calmed down, and let out a final sigh of satisfaction.
“Whatcha’ studying?”
Relieved the Brit was finished with her hysterics, Amélie went back to her idle work.
“Medicine.”
Silence descended upon the room once more, only filled with the snipping of the Frenchwoman’s scissors. The Brit did not respond for a long period, continuing to aimlessly stare at the ceiling.
“So… in med-school,” Lena raised her index finger in the air above the backrest so Amélie could see, “And working at a bookstore,” she raised her other index finger, then proceeded to repeatedly tap her fingers together, wordlessly reiterating the clear disconnect.
Amélie’s resulting sigh was made up of a mixture of relief and gloom.
“I much prefer books over medicine.”
“But you wanna become a doctor or somethin’, no?”
“Not really.”
Lena’s eyebrows pinched inward in confusion.
“Whatcha’ wanna do then?”
Amélie shrugged to nobody in particular.
“I don’t know,” she quietly admitted.
Lena’s eyes softened at the Frenchwoman’s confession, humming in acknowledgement.
“Do you know what you want to do?” Amélie casually countered.
The Brit let out another hum; this time in ponderance, “Does this have to be realistic or no?”
Amélie chuckled, “Non, chérie.”
“A driver, then!”
The Frenchwoman’s eyes widened in surprise, “Oh?”
“Yeah! Imagine this, love,” the Brit excitedly raised her hands back into the air as if gripping a steering wheel while the novel lay on the chest. “Being the fastest person in the world- competing against the best-of-the-best, and leaving them in the dust!” Her arms rapidly swerved back and forth, simulating the steering of an imaginary racecar.
“Like, I wanna be the woman that’s so fast that not a single soul thinks that they could beat me.” Lena’s eyes sparkled in wonder from behind the couch cushions, Amélie cracked a gratified smile as she continued to listen attentively.
“I wanna be that person a kid sees on TV and thinks, ‘I wanna be like her!’” The Brit finished her statement with a tone brimming with wonder. Her arms then loosened, crashing back down to Earth as she let out a melancholic sigh.
“It would be a dream come true.”
A wide smile still plastered across her face, Amélie hummed thoughtfully. Based on the Brit's subsequent reaction to her own fantasy, however, she was well aware of its position on Lena’s “realistic” spectrum.
“What’s stopping you?”
A long and uncomfortable pause ensued. After several seconds, Amélie paused her task, making a painful realization that she may have asked the wrong question.
“Am I allowed to lie?” The Brit asked in a quiet whisper. In the several weeks the two have gotten to know each other, Amélie has never heard the former’s voice sound so small.
“You don’t have to answer at all,” Amélie softly responded, giving her best attempt at being supportive. Although she would have offered the same hospice regardless, Amélie would’ve been a hypocrite to deny the Brit’s request.
Another long pause. Amélie could only wait in silence, her eyes locked onto the backrest obstructing her view of the Brit. The latter’s strained eyes, however, faced the opposing side of the store.
“As nice as you are, love, you’re not the only reason I come here all the time.”
Amélie simply nodded expectantly, she suspected as much to begin with.
“The lights are always on, there’s heating, the loo isn’t always on the brink of breaking,” the Brit began to list, tallying the number of reasons on her fingers, “the smell of weed n’ crack isn’t constantly in my nose, police sirens aren’t blaring outside the window every half-hour, I don’t have to worry about stray bullets nailing me from the next apartment over.”
The Brit sighed.
“Here’s the only place I get to feel normal,” her eyes shut softly as she covered them with the crook of her elbow, “and can forget about all that.”
The Brit heard some shuffling from the other side of the couch, but her vision remained pitch black with the help of her arm. After a long pause, she found her mouth moving on its own.
“I mean, I already knew you were outta’ my league before you told me about what you do. Now? Bollocks, I don’t even wanna-”
The Brit’s rambling was interrupted as she was suddenly being surrounded by a soft, cocoon-like warmth. Furrowing her eyebrows, she lifted her arm to unmask her eyes and make sense of the sensation. Her vision revealed the Frenchwoman who now stood in front of her, the dim lighting of the room streaked shadows behind her sharp facial features and complimented her brown eyes, which felt warmer than ever to meet directly. The cream color of her oversized half-zip fleece and bright blue mom jeans stood out amongst the darkened shop around them. The Great Gatsby was now held in Amélie’s hand, and a thick blanket was draped over Lena’s entire body below her neck.
“Lift your legs, chérie,” demanded the former, alongside a shoo-ing motion of her free hand, to which the Brit incredulously obliged.
Amélie silently slotted herself in the spot the Brit’s legs previously occupied, gently guiding the latter’s blanket-covered legs to rest comfortably atop her lap, pointedly ignoring their owner’s mind-boggled expression. She rested the novel and her elbows atop the Brit’s legs before finally meeting her widened eyes with a comforting smile.
“I would like to read to you tonight, if that is okay?”
With her request, the Brit’s expression slowly transitioned into a soft smile before she sheepishly averted her eyes.
“I would like that,” she whispered.
Amélie nodded before opening the novel at the place her finger marked while Lena propped her head up to watch. Once they settled, Amélie started softly reading aloud where Lena last left off.
—
After their exchange that night, the two became even closer.
Over the following days, gradually less time was spent reading and more time was inadvertently spent simply talking to one another. The two of them would alternate as the “reader” each night, only for them to become sidetracked less than an hour in; the story eventually being lost in conversation.
After a few days, Amélie no longer spent her evenings distracting herself with chores, instead committing all of her energy towards conversing with her newfound friend. The two fell into a routine of turning off all but one of the lights in the store, draping a blanket over themselves, settling themselves on the couch with Lena’s legs always draped across Amélie’s lap, and proceeding to waste the night away in conversation.
“Did your father fight in the war?” Amélie asked curiously.
“Sure did,” Lean replied, examining her bitten fingernails, “‘Saw some rough shit too. Doesn’t excuse him from being an arse the second he heard a french accent, but explains it.”
“And your mother?”
The Brit shook her head.
“She took care of me while he was gone.”
“Did she share his… beliefs?”
Lena let out a half-amused huff.
“Yeah. If anything, she was worse.” The Brit squeezed her companion’s hand, which lay intertwined with her’s on her abdomen, “Everyone here hated Frenchies during the time from all the propaganda and all that. Thought you were all bigots.”
Amélie only nodded in acknowledgement before the two fell into comfortable silence once more, the Frenchwoman’s thumb idly stroking over Lena's knuckle.
“So how did you not end up like them?”
“Oh trust me, love. I did.” Lena answered with no hesitation, “I was that girl that didn’t say anything directly to them, but always stood behind the arsehole who did.” Her as-always chirpy voice was intermixed with regret.
“Once I arrived at the orphanage, I was the only Brit. The rest of the kids and maman were all French.”
Amélie’s eyes widened in pleasant surprise at the Brit choice of terminology. Meanwhile, Lena giggled with nostalgia and she continued to watch the ceiling fan spin above them.
“Never spoke a word to 'em for the first few months, but learned better pretty quick,” the Brit finally answered with a reminiscent smile.
“What about your parents?” The Brit reciprocated with a question of her own, lifting her head to meet eyes with the recipient.
The Frenchwoman quickly snapped herself out of her shocked daze. She then tilted her head back to the ceiling and hummed thoughtfully. Several seconds of silence followed.
“Both of them hated how our people treated omnics back then,” she eventually responded, “They never expressed this outside of their close friends, though. We would’ve been outcasted.”
She then let out a deep exhale.
“I suspect that is part of the reason they took the jobs and moved here after,” Amélie continued. She smiled at the feeling of the Brit squeezing her hand once more. “There were still many dangerous people who held terrible beliefs around us, so they probably found it too risky to stay.”
The Brit huffed in frustration. “Bloody well that decision did for them, the wankers here probably treat you worse.”
To Lena’s surprise, she heard the hint of an amused chuckle from Amélie. “I would assume they weighed the risks, chérie,” she quickly responded, “Besides, many of our friends moved here as well.”
“Is one of ‘em the girl that gives me the death stare every time she sees me?” Lena grumbled.
This time, Amélie couldn’t hold back the effortless laugh that escaped her lungs. “Louise is just protective, chérie. You two would get along well if you got to know each other.”
Lena released an obnoxious snort, meeting the Frenchwoman’s eyes with a deadpan stare. “Yeah, she’s gonna’ have to make the first move for that to happen, love.”
Amélie released a throaty chuckle before responding. “I’ll make sure she gets the message,” she responded non-committedly.
“Yeah, yeah,” the Brit made a show of rolling her eyes. With nowhere left for the conversation to branch off, the two simply sat in comfortable silence. Neither of them felt obligated to open their mouths first, as they were more than content just spending time in the other’s presence. After several seconds, the Brit spoke up once more.
“Call me selfish, but I’m glad your parents decided to move.”
Watching the Brit’s blatant attempt to hide the blush creeping onto her cheeks, Amélie could only respond with an amused chuckle. This only resulted in the Brit hiding her head under the covers, herself now being a large, round-tipped protrusion in the sea of blanket on the couch.
Amélie released the Brit’s hand to give the protrusion head-scratches, to which it affectionately leaned further into. The Frenchwoman couldn’t help the content smile gracing her lips.
“I am too.”
—
Another one of Amélie’s abrupt sneezing episodes caused Lena to halt her reading to offer a polite “bless you”.
At this point, the former only needed to nod to express her gratitude.
Amélie was sick.
Despite her stubborn denial, her symptoms were quite obvious to the Brit and likely anybody with a functioning pair of eyes and ears. The whites of her eyes formed a gradient with a subtle ruby-red towards the borders of her eyelids. This sickly red was also present on her nose in its entirety, which was running profusely based on the frequency of the Frenchwoman’s sniffles.
She has been sneezing ever since the Brit arrived earlier that afternoon, the sound of her fits erupting from the front of the store every so often throughout the day.
The Frenchwoman’s illness was not a big surprise. The exterior of the store’s windows were occupied by a scattered collage of tenacious raindrops; each reflecting the vibrant colors of the city street within their own respective borders. A product of the rain which continued to fall upon the city from the clouds above. The temperature was also abnormally cold today, which also didn’t help in the slightest. To tell it simply, the weather would not hesitate to pounce upon anyone caught walking around the city without the proper outerwear.
Based on the drenched fall coat on the hook tree adjacent to the door and the absence of an umbrella in the Frenchwoman’s presence, it was safe to assume that Amélie fell victim to said weather.
Normally, this wouldn’t be considered a huge deal in any regard. But the Frenchwoman continued to avidly refuse her defeat at the hands of climate.
“I feel perfect, chérie.”
“Ah yes. Sure you do,” the Brit sat on the couch that faced away from the front desk, novel open and in-hand, rolling her eyes to the back of her head. “And I am the secret princess of the Amazon, sent here to retrieve the keys to my kingdom.”
Amélie sat in her usual spot at the front desk, the pale skin on her face profusely flushed from the heat radiating from her body’s repeated protests. The weight of her head lay entirely on the open hand placed under her cheek. This caused her cheek’s loose flesh to compress into the rest of her face, scrunching everything above it into a childlike pout.
Her eyes widened slightly upon finding her nose running once more. Having already enacted this contingency countless times today, Amélie effortlessly plucked a single tissue from the tissue box on her desk and brought it to the area of insult in one smooth motion. All without even looking in the box’s direction.
Wiping her nose with a napkin as silently as she possibly could, the Frenchwoman’s bloodshot and sore eyes managed an annoyed deadpan aimed at the back of companion’s head. She then crossed her arms, stuck her chin in the air, and closed her eyes, striking a defiant pose.
“Mocking me doesn’t make you any more right.”
“Love, your garbage can is literally crammed to its limit with tissues.”
“It hasn't been emptied in a few days.”
As she listened to yet another false justification from the Frenchwoman, the Brit turned herself on the couch to half-face the subject sitting at the counter behind her. She laid her elbow atop its backrest to anchor her pose, then shot the woman an irked look.
“The way you walked to the loo made you look drunk.”
“I was sitting for too long. Blood was rushing to my head.”
“Then how do you explain why you walked the exact same coming back?” The Brit responded quickly. She placed the open novel on her thigh; her leg acting as a temporary-but-convenient bookmark.
The Frenchwoman’s eyebrow twitched in a mix of frustration and concentration. A long pause ensued between the two, only filled with sounds of rain beating against the concrete just outside and its pattering against the rooftop above their heads.
“I sat on the toilet for a long time.”
“You were in there for less than a minute, love.”
“How can you be so sure of that?”
“Guess who was waiting to take a piss as well?”
Amélie’s defiant expression quickly fell to an annoyed scowl as she cursed the Brit under her breath. She spent another long moment attempting to form another excuse to bail herself out, yet her mouth didn’t open.
“What’s so wrong with admitting you may be at least the slightest bit sick?” Since their clash of wits was clearly not going anywhere, the Brit just got straight to her point.
The Frenchwoman could only scoff, her potent defiance still very-much present.
“I can only be ‘sick’ if I wasn’t able to leave my bed this morning,” she answered with vigor, “I am sitting here now, am I not?” She was able to finish her thought before a fit of loud sneezes took hold of her once more. Shaking her head to herself and rolling her eyes, the Brit repeated her courtesy “bless you”.
Well-aware Amélie wouldn’t budge on the issue, the Brit relented, returning to her seated position. She then lightly tapped the spot adjacent to her. The impact sound between her open hand and the couch cushion was more than audible for her companion’s ears. Her other hand removed the book from her thigh and placed it spine-up on the coffee table.
“Come over here for a sec’, love.”
With nothing else to do otherwise, Amélie swung her legs to stand herself up from her stool. She then made a gamely attempt for a strut whilst making her way towards the couch, which only resulted in an awkward hobble. Upon catching the Frenchwoman practically stumbling into her vision, the Brit only gave the former a scolding look and tapped the spot next to her once more.
Amélie collapsed onto the couch, only managing to just turn herself around before landing to end up in a seated position. Without a word, Lena placed a stray pillow on her lap. Then, by her hand, Amélie’s head soon followed. The Frenchwoman’s eyes were wide in surprise as the side of her face buried deeper into the pillow’s soft center.
Too caught off guard to resist the Brit’s actions, the Frenchwoman could only lay there in mild shock as the former continued to work. Lena gently brushed the stray hairs from her face and fed them behind her ears. She then took the blanket neatly folded on the couch’s armrest and draped it over the Frenchwoman.
Returning from her stupor, Amélie couldn’t remember the last time she felt this warm.
She didn’t realize how woozy she felt prior to this moment, the spinning of her head subsiding the further her muscles loosened into the cushions.
She already felt her eyelids screaming to close from exhaustion. Normally, she would loudly protest against Lena's actions, but she was already here. She was also extremely comfortable. It would be too much work to punish the Brit from this position.
All it took was said culprit running her hands through her locks for Amélie to drop the thought entirely. The Frenchwoman purred in satisfaction and let her eyelids flutter closed. Still treading her hands through Amélie’s hair, a tender smile graced the Brit’s lips.
She waited for the Brit’s teasing words to follow as she pampered her like a spoiled house cat, but the words never came. Instead, the Brit leaned forward over the Frenchwoman to grab the novel from the coffee table, and held it open on the armrest to begin reading aloud once more.
The reverberations that traveled through the Brit’s body felt nice against Amélie’s head, the satisfied smile on her lips only widening once the latter began reading.
It didn’t take long for Amélie’s running nose to rear its ugly head once more, to which its victim formed a devious idea to resolve.
Quickly shifting the pillow, the Frenchwoman used the nearest fabric to wipe her nose temporarily clean. This fabric happened to be Lena’s pants. This didn’t go unnoticed by their owner, who yelped in fury.
“You motherfuc-”
—
The blaring of car honks and synchronized french-spoken chants sharply pierced the store’s front windows. The bright sunlight blared down, illuminating the protestors marching down the streets directly outside of the store and emboldened lettering on their raised signs. They all uniformly held their fists to the air in synchrony with their impassioned chant, their sense of individual consequence long-lost in the frenzy of the collective.
Inside the empty store, Lena sat on the couch. The normally-bright sun that radiated the Brit’s skin and freckles was replaced by the streak of a harsh shadow from the obstruction of the angry mob. Her eyes scanned the crowd on the other side of the window with a mix of concern and sorrow as her hands lay tensely clasped on her lap.
Unable to handle the distress of watching the crowd any longer, the Brit adjusted her gaze towards her companion across the room. Amélie’s eyes were aimed towards the window, and her arms were crossed across her abdomen. Witnessing the same upsetting scene from her seat at the front counter, the Frenchwoman’s pale complexion housed a complicated mix of misery and patriotic pride.
Likely due to the extraneous circumstances occurring outside, the store was empty by the time the disheveled Brit burst through the door earlier that afternoon.
Upon her arrival, the Brit quickly found her companion to be seated behind the counter. Both of their expressions eased into visible relief at seeing the other safe. Once both of their well-beings were ensured, the two of them slowly turned towards the grim reality that awaited them outside. After several minutes of staring, Lena slowly made her way to the couch without as much as a glance in Amélie’s direction, taking a seat in the position she now holds in the present.
Too preoccupied with her own racing thoughts, Amélie didn’t even notice.
They are yet to have spoken a word to one another today. Soft words of conversation, comfort, and affection avidly refused to be conceived with the existence of the crowd outside.
The Brit’s nails dug into her knuckles, threatening to tear skin. The Frenchwoman’s nails threatened the same damage to her forearm.
The space that separated the two felt immeasurable.
—
“If you could live anywhere-”
“Where would I want to live?” With a smug smirk on her face, Amélie was quick to finish the Brit’s question for her as she examined her nails. The Brit only pouted in response, nodding begrudgingly.
After chuckling in amusement at the Brit’s reaction, the Frenchwoman hummed thoughtfully.
The two were settled in their usual position; with Lena comfortably laid across the couch with her legs resting on Amélie’s lap. Instead of the incandescent light above them, a small collection of lit candles on the coffee table was the sole light source for the entire store. Their quaint orange flames softly illuminated the candles’ closest surroundings, the two bodies bundled on the couch included.
A similar method was adopted by the numerous apartments that lined the street. Faint candlelight filled virtually all the windows in the apartment complexes visible from the store.
One of the store’s windows was left propped open, allowing the distant sounds of soothing music to enter.
Such music began with a single violin playing a soft melody from an open apartment window. After a few minutes, more instruments began to join from their respective windows, their talents and alliance communicated through musical harmony. First, a viola. Second, another violin, then a cello, and most recently, a piano.
According to Amélie, this was a common occurrence during power outages, which have become more frequent with the recent french protests. Because of this, herself and many others living on the city street did not hesitate to open their windows to enjoy the spontaneous pseudo-orchestra, many even leaned out of their windows for a better listen.
“Canada, I suppose,” Amélie answered after a long pause.
By this time, the Brit’s eyes were closed whilst she listened to the soft melody coming from the street. Nonetheless, she still responded with an acknowledging hum.
“And why is that?”
This question incited a long pause from the Frenchwoman, who furrowed her eyebrows whilst gathering her thoughts. The Brit’s eyes remained closed as she smiled contentedly and patiently awaited Amélie’s response.
“I prefer the cold,” the Frenchwoman eventually answered with a shrug, “And it’s a fresh start, in a place where I could feel like I belong.”
Once again, the Brit only hummed in satisfied acknowledgement. Her hands simply folded on her abdomen as she indulged in the proximal warmth of her companion. Amélie smiled once laying eyes upon her cozy companion. Instinctively, she began to massage the muscles of her companion’s legs. Her efforts were instantly rewarded by the Brit’s groans of delight.
“Where would you live?” Amélie asked back softly.
“Canada.” Lena answered with no hesitation.
This caused Amélie’s eyebrows to raise in surprise, but they quickly darted back down to form a suspicious frown aimed directly at Lena.
“Let me guess-”
“Yes, love,” without even opening her eyes, the Brit was quick to interrupt in feigned annoyance and confirm Amélie’s amused accusation, “‘Think you’re Sherlock now, yeah?”
Amélie’s resounding laugh was as smooth as chocolate, warming the confines of the shop alongside Lena’s soul in its embrace. The licking flames of the candles felt as if they glowed that much brighter for those few moments. Once she calmed down, the Frenchwoman placed a hand between the Brit’s folded ones, which subsequently cocooned the newcomer affectionately.
—
Today, the Brit burst into the store late in the evening. By this time, all of the patrons have long-departed, leaving only Amélie sitting on the couch anxiously fidgeting with a loose pen.
Upon seeing the Brit, Amélie immediately sprung up and let out a deep sigh of relief with a hand over her heart. Lena usually wasn’t this late, but the ecstatic smile on her face would likely explain her tardiness. Upon meeting eyes with the Frenchwoman, she bounded over and slammed into her with a tight embrace.
“Guess who got a job?!” The Brit’s voice couldn’t contain her excitement, who looked as if their energy could power the entirety of London for a day.
Amélie’s face broke out into a proud smile.
“Finally,” she responded sarcastically, to which the Brit lightly swatted her on the shoulder.
The two now comfortably rested in their typical arrangement on the couch. The Brit hands were raised high in the air to form grandiose gestures to compliment her enthusiastic dialogue.
“‘The Slipstream’, they called it!” At this point, the Brit tried her best to limit herself to excited whispers, but compensated for the lack of volume with grand gestures. “They were telling me how the bugger can teleport. Tele-port love!” Lena’s voice kept rising from pure excitement.
Throughout the Brit’s excited explanation, Amélie’s expression gradually morphed from satisfied pride to horrified concern.
“Chérie,” Amélie softly interrupted the Brit’s verbal recollection.
“Yeah, love?” Now aware of the Frenchwoman’s conflicted expression, Lena’s slightly faded with a dash of concern herself. Staring blankly into the carpet beneath them, Amélie refused to meet her eyes.
“Don’t you think this sounds… dangerous?”
Still intently watching the now-concerned Frenchwoman, the Brit’s eyes widened. Now understanding why the former no-longer shared in her enthusiasm, she averted her eyes to look out the window. The two sat in uncomfortable silence for a brief moment before Lena responded whilst scratching the back of her neck.
“Yeah, it definitely isn’t the safest,” confirmed the Brit sheepishly. Another brief pause. “But they’re taking every precaution in the book, love,” she continued as the two of them made eye contact once more, as she offered a reassuring smile.
Amélie’s eyes did not hesitate to narrow in suspicion at the Brit’s claim, “What precautions?”
“Well, they’ve already done plenty of experiments on remote aircrafts n’ such,” listed the Brit, who was now beginning to cower under her companion's accusatory gaze.
“They’ve teleported other things, animals-” the Brit’s voice began to delve into panic upon seeing a distressed Amélie covering her face with her hands, “Even large ones! Bigger than humans! And they ended up just fine!”
“What makes you think anything they told you is true?” Although her question was hushed, the venom in Amélie’s tone was unmistakable. Amélie’s face left her hands and whipped towards Lena while her fists clenched painfully atop the Brit’s legs.
The Frenchwoman’s seething anger was apparent as ever, but Lena knew it wasn’t directed at her.
“I-” the Brit couldn’t even start her sentence before letting out a defeated sigh, visibly deflating, “I don’t know,” she finally admitted.
“Then why do you still want to do it?!”
“They are offering up a lot, love.”
“Money?! Is that what this is about?!” Amélie exclaimed in disbelief, “If you needed that, you could’ve just ask-”
“And where would that end, Amélie?!” Lena’s voice was now raised in frustration, “My entire life has been just me asking for favors and still barely making ends meet,” she ranted, a suffocating feeling of defeat shadowing every word she forced out of herself. “How the hell am I supposed to build a life with you if I can’t even build one for myself?!”
Amélie’s expression softened and her eyes widened at the Brit’s sudden outburst. Just as quick, however, was desperation to take hold of her features once more.
“You’ve been building a life just fine with what you’ve been given! Swallow your pride, chérie.”
“This isn’t just about pride-” the Brit made a halting motion with her hands, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
“Amélie,” Lena started calmly, “If this goes right, I’ll be making so much that no one will say shit about us,” She took Amélie’s hand and cradled it with her own, staring intently into her eyes. “Hell, we could move if that’s in the cards for you.”
This only made a frown make its way onto Amélie’s features. Nonetheless, she unconsciously massaged the Brit’s knuckles with her thumb. “And what if it goes wrong?”
Lena suddenly released her hands from Amélie’s and retracted her legs that lay across the Frenchwoman’s lap. Her legs were replaced by her head, and her eyes bore directly into Amélie’s; a comforting smile graced the Brit’s features.
“Listen,” she gently held Amélie’s head in her hands, to which the latter closed her eyes and sighed in satisfaction, “The program lasts half a year, so almost the exact time you graduate.”
“Lena…”
“I’ll be able to support us. You can find whatever makes you tick,” the Brit assured, her expression shining far too bright with hope, “I can finally take you out to fish n’ chips. You can taste real food!”
The distress painting the Frenchwoman’s pretty features broke into amusement for only a brief moment before returning to reality. Her eyes averted downward towards the side.
“I still don’t like it, chérie.”
Lena takes the Frenchwoman’s hands and clasps them over her chest, “I know you don’t, love, but this is my call,” she lifted herself on her elbow to meet Amélie’s eyes once more. “You and I both know this is the best way available to us.”
The Brit leaned even closer to accentuate her next point, “We won’t get another chance like this.”
As much as she hated it, Amélie knew the Brit was right. All she could do was avert her eyes again in silence and run her hands through the Brit’s messy locks. The Brit responded by hugging the Frenchwoman’s waist and gently burying her face into the latter’s abdomen.
Now looking down at the woman who has quickly become irreplaceable to her, Amélie felt her vision blur, and a warm liquid starting to flow down her cheeks. Her teardrops that fell from her chin glistened in the store’s warm light, melting into the locks of the only person they could fall for.
After several seconds, the Frenchwoman’s hands were now running through a mixture of her companion’s hair and her own tears. Feeling such, the Brit quickly adjusted her position to straddle Amélie’s lap and gingerly cradle her face in her hands. She gently wiped away Amélie's tears with her thumbs, her own eyes now glossing with tears as she smiled affectionately. Amélie’s arms wrapped around Lena’s waist, holding the latter for dear life.
The two of them closed their eyes as they leaned their foreheads against one another. The contact being Lena’s rain amongst the inferno, and Amélie’s campfire to light up a freezing night.
“The second you feel like you're in danger-” Amélie’s words came out a choked sobs, but strikingly clear.
“I’ll drop it all without question,” the Brit whispered in response.
“Promise me.”
Lena’s eyes slowly opened to see her companion’s tear-stricken brown irises staring at her in volition. Soon enough, the Brit’s eyelids could no longer contain her own tears, which now streamed down her face while she offered the most loving smile she could muster. She sniffled to ensure that her next words came out as clearly as they felt.
“I promise.”