"Everything."
Harry spread the picnic blanket on the ground, the red and white checked cloth fluttering in the warm summer breeze. Overhead, the willow branches swayed.
“Alice?” he called, casting his eyes toward his beautiful golden-haired fiancé. She was standing at the side of the lake, gazing out at the water. She shielded her eyes from the sunlight with her hand. The sun made her long, straw-colored hair shimmer. A soft breeze made her blue dress flutter in the wind.
“Coming,” she called, and after a moment, she turned and leveled her big blue eyes on him. She smiled, then ducking under the branches, she joined him in the tree’s shade.
Alice wrapped her arms around Harry. “Three things,” she whispered in his ear. They loved playing this game, listing in code three things they'd been thinking about. It certainly was more fun than the tired “penny for your thoughts.”
Harry laughed. “You’re mad,” he said with a grin, but gave into her game all the same. “Your lovely blue eyes, this old tree, and those cherry red lips,” he said, kissing her gently. Her pouty lips always tasted ever so lightly of cherry lip gloss, which kept her kiss soft and sweet.
Giggling, Alice pulled back. “We’re all mad around here, my dear. Don’t you know?”
Harry tapped her playfully on the nose. “So I’ve heard. Now you.”
Alice leaned back and ruffled his sunny colored curls. “Hair the color of sunflowers, white rabbits, and cold chicken! I’m starving!”
Harry laughed. “Then by all means, Milady, please sit,” he said, gesturing grandly toward the blanket.
Alice flounced onto the ground then dug hungrily into the picnic basket, pulling out two large cloth napkins which she spread before them. Handing him a cup, she then poured him a glass of lemon iced tea.
“Shall we toast before we eat?” Harry asked.
Alice nodded happily. “By all means. To the Hatter!”
Harry shook his head. How he loved this woman and her stories. “To the Hatter, wherever he may roam.”
They drank down their tea. Alice took the cup from Harry’s hand, set it back in the basket, then pushed him back onto the blanket.
“I thought you were hungry,” he told her with a laugh.
“I am,” she said with a wicked grin as she sat astride his waist. Leaning forward, she began to unbutton his shirt. “And I know just what I want for my first course!” Alice pushed open his shirt and kissed his chest, drizzling soft kisses from his neck downward.
“Alice,” he whispered, catching a handful of her honey-scented hair. “Tell me again. Tell me all about it once again.”
“You promise you’ll believe me? Promise?” she whispered in Harry’s ear, nibbling on his earlobe.
“With all my heart,” he replied, reaching up to stroke her hair. How much she loved this wild, imaginative woman.
Alice kissed him once more, lay her head down on his bare chest, then began: “I was just a girl when, one sunny Sunday afternoon, I found myself sitting on this very bank with my sister. To my surprise, a white rabbit with very pink ears ran by . . .”
A soft wind blew off the Mississippi, carrying with it the sounds of the French Quarter, as Raphael and I settled in at a table outside the cafe. Soft lights illuminated the space. The entire cafe smelled of sugar-coated, deep-fried dough. White powdered sugar dusted the ground under the cafe tables. The scent of chicory-flavored lattes filled the air. Outside the cafe, horse-drawn carriages rattled down the street, carting starry-eyed tourists around to see the sights.
"Beignets," the server, who had a soft creole lilt in her voice, said as she set down a red plastic basket overflowing with sweet pastries fried to a honey-gold hue, powdered sugar heaped on top like a mouth-watering mountain of goodness. "And two cafe au laits," she added, dropping off two white coffee mugs before she slipped back to the kitchen.
"Bon appetit," Raphael said, lifting his mug. He set the cup to his mouth then winked at me.
I lifted the coffee and inhaled deeply. The sweet scents of coffee, cream, sugar, and the light scent of chicory wafted off the brew. I took a sip, savoring the flavors. Divine. The slightly nutty taste of the coffee blended perfectly with the sugar and cream.
"Do the locals come here or only the tourists?" I asked.
"Everyone comes to the Quarter for beignets. Bourbon Street, well, that's a different story," he said, setting his coffee down.
If my ears could have fallen in love, they would have. His rich Cajun accent made my knees weak. I'd barely been in the Big Easy for two months, and somehow I'd managed to catch the attention of the best looking guy in my class at Tulane...and, an added bonus, he was a local. When he offered to show me around, how could I say no?
Raphael lifted one of the beignets and took a bite. The powder left a sweet shadow on his lips.
I giggled. "You have a little sugar...."
"Where?"
I tapped my lips.
Raphael leaned in toward me as if he wanted to kiss me. Nervous butterflies filled my stomach. We'd been dating for two weeks. It was time, but I still felt stupidly shy.
I laughed, grabbed my napkin, and wiped his mouth for him, causing him to smile. But I saw the disappointment behind his eyes. Ugh. What was I waiting for?
"Now you," he said, motioning to the basket.
Grabbing the pastry, I leaned over the basket and took a bite. The hot dough was crunchy on the outside but hot and sweet on the inside. The taste of sugar melted in my mouth alongside the buttery flavor of the crispy, sweet, fried dough.
"Oh my god," I whispered. "So good."
Raphael smiled, his eyes fixed on my face. "You have a little sugar..."
"Where?"
Raphael leaned toward me again, setting his hand on my knee. He slid his chair closer to me and gently reached out and touched my chin. "There," he said, looking at my lips.
This time, I didn't resist. He pressed his lips against mine. His mouth was hot and sweet. The taste of the sugar and coffee flavored his kiss, but somehow I imagined he tasted like that anyway. He stroked my cheek as he kissed me, and I started to feel dizzy from the heavenly sensation.
On the street outside, a saxophone player started blowing a sweet melody. Hot wind blew off the Mississippi, catching with it the scent of night-blooming jasmine.
When Raphael finally let me go, I sighed contentedly.
"Sweetest beignet I've ever had," he said, touching my cheek gently.
I shifted my chain and leaned against him, resting my head on his chest. "I think I'm going to love it here," I said, closing my eyes and listening to the sound of Raphael's heart beating alongside the sound dulcet tones of the New Orleans saxophone.
The veranda outside the teahouse overlooked the dark blue waters of the Bosphorous which separated the European and Asian sides of Istanbul. We were sitting a small café table. It was early morning, and the air felt warm and damp, the sweet scent of the waters of the strait mingling with the smell of the breakfast spread out before me. At its edges, the skyline was trimmed pink with the last of the morning sunrise. Around me, the Turkish teahouse patrons laughed as they sipped their morning teas and coffees, the aroma of the drinks and the perfume of freshly baked bread hanging heavy in the air.