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"Anything I can do to help you out?" I ask her, batting my eyelashes and sinking further to the edge of the counter.
She giggles, giving me a cup of water to drown out the bitterness in my mouth.
"I was going to start making my signature Creole shrimp, but that can wait. Atleast finish your coffee first, Brie. Then maybe I'll consider it," Jeanne replies. A voice so velvety and so infectious it would be the only thing I want to listen to on repeat all day. From words that have a pleasant twinge from her French accent, to melodies you hum that coincide with harmonious music played by one of your guests.
"Scared I'll make something as good as you?" I say as I take a sip of my coffee.
I think of you as my half-empty cup of black coffee steams up on a bright freezing morning. The coffee's not as hot as it used to be, but it still warms the body. I made mine the same way Jeanne does. Splashes of cinnamon, speckles of clove, and always made with love. A teaspoon of sugar as sweet as her voice but strong enough to keep me up for hours.
"Maybe then you'll be just as good as me," Jeanne laughs heavily. Our laughs echo in the kitchen, where our happiness blooms.
And like a flower, it would only blossom, it would grow to be the most beautiful it could be.
"Why would you even do that?"
"It's…" A brief pause follows, "Look, I was a pretty stupid kid, you know?"
Nightfall comes by in the Waves' Cradle. Snowflakes fall and frost the windows. The only things one could hear are the whooshes of the waves outside and the cracks of the fireplace, the wind was somehow calmer than in the morning.
Michael, Li, and Thomas said their goodnights and returned to their quarters. I stayed still in the excuse to help her with the chores, but with the intention to see her beautiful face and wistful curly hair just for longer.
The fluffy beignets melt perfectly in my mouth and I eat my remaining plate of beignets, shirt stained with powdered sugar. This feels like my memorabilia, it hasn't been brushed off, despite her numerous offers to do so.
"I'm sure you've done some other stupid stuff as a kid too," I say, smiling. It's only a slow and hesitant approach, but my exhaustion makes it apparent enough for my mind to doze off and focus only on her. Where I bury my head on Jeanne's shoulders and I'm put into a trance from her perfume. With notes of vanilla and musk, I could only absorb myself in her.
"Maybe much less than you." Jeanne faces me, curls barely poking my face. Holding my face gently like a handrail for support. Like a simple cry for her to be held and for me to stay put, at least until someone else suddenly enters the room. Her touch reminds me of a brief moment in the attic days ago when her soft hands held my face for the very first time.
"But that could be another story for another time." Jeanne laughs. The white head light showing a special shine on her brown eyes.
I love watching her eyes sparkle. I love when our hands hover each other and I could find an excuse for our hands to intertwine. To let comfortable silence spill in a home full of noise. To let something inside us rush with anticipation.
"So… do you still have leftover tea by any chance?"
Minutes, or even an hour or two, pass by and both of us decide to finally halt our conversations. Perhaps Jeanne's social and mental battery is drained, and I can't forget she wakes up early simply to prepare the food. Plus, I don't have the strength to make more edits to my novel. I couldn't wait to lay in my bed, listen to the waves, close my eyes, and imagine the next steps of what I write.
As I stand in front of my room door, I feel some presence hovering behind me. My face flushes and my lips curl into a smile while I look below to my shoes, cowardly enough to not have eye contact.
She's there when I first awake, she was there during my exhaustion, and she was there when I needed her the most. For comfort. For validation. For company.
And she'll be there before my world comes to a rest, when I imagine her pressing a slight kiss so close to my lips.
Or is it a real occurrence that felt too good to be true?
"Sweet dreams, Brie."
Everything I do is an amalgamation of the actions from everyone I have ever loved. I don't know if I could love any other the way I love her, and maybe I don't need an answer when she's stamped into my heart.