Fleeting

Bon retours, she said to the young blond man mopping the floor. Ici c'est mon ami Gale Jones. Il en a besoin du travail. The handsome boy made a face and hollered to the back room, summoning with the name Alain the tallest man I ever saw. His shoulders blocked the whole door frame as he introduced himself as the owner, hired me on the spot, and had me seat myself with Madame, the one who got me the job I wanted, at her table. Tu vois, she said with a dash of cunning. Demande et tu reçois. Meanwhile, the other employee swore he would never work with an anglophone.

The next day was my training, and true to his word Hortus was a no show. Issuing my instructions in French, Alain said at the end of my rundown behind the counter: Il faut seulement du temps. For me, the time could not come sooner to get on the good side of the teenager, the dark reflection of my own self at seventeen. On the topic of brewing, I was in my element. My first customer was the woman in the turtleneck and glasses, for whom I made the butter coffee that Alain made for me, not seeing that it was his idea of a joke. Hortus finally showed up, Oxford-Hachette dictionary in hand right as the doctor tried my concoction, the experiment over which Alain was wringing his hands as he looked on. Lucky for me, never in my life should I make a bad coffee. C'est bon was the doctor's verdict. Mais je resterai avec le masala chai du garçon. Hortus puffed up, and treated me with warm condescension for the rest of the day. From then on, I had an uneasy friendship with the proud francophone barista.