It has been one year since I lost little pieces of me.To you.

I remember the day we went to the French patisserie. The one round the corner from my flat. It’s Parisian charm a respite from the cold outside. Hand in hand we strolled, with such casual comfortable ease.  Counters overflowing with quiche lorraine, pain au chocolats, croissants filled with ham and emmenthal. The air heavy with the bittersweet taste of freshly brewed coffee. Mr Olivier Martinez, we nicknamed the owner, standing behind the counter, long hair tied in a loose ponytail. With a brusque smile, greeted us as  we entered. It was typically crowded. We would linger by the door, hesitating-unsure-to stay or go? A sea of  Rattan chairs and Marble table tops.Then i’d spot a table, at the back.  You know the one which is half chair half sofa. You’d always let me sit on the sofa bit. I always felt so precious. So I’d wait while you got the coffee, distractedly flipping through the Times as I watched you. Order our coffees. You in your old man jumper, the collar of your shirt peeking out. There you stood in your brown brogues, your commanding but approachable stance, the way you spoke so eloquent. So effortlessly You.

You would stride over, coffees in hand. Two cappuccino fiends. My favourite part- the frothy milk that sits  glistening on top of the cappucino. From your teacup to my teacup, you always made sure I had extra froth. Tiny Gestures. Spoke deeply to me.

In the dim yellow lights of the French patisserie, curled in the half sofa half chair, surrounded by the cacophony of sounds and smells ( and under Mr Oliver Martinez’s watchful eyes) we held hands gazing endearingly into each others eyes, having deep and meaningful conversations. You know the kind of conversations I am talking about.

The kind that binds so intimately that I start to feel like I am an extension of you. That I experienced life before you  with you, that the secrets you unravel are my secrets too. These conversations we had that masked the fact that I never knew you way back when. Words whose clout shrouded the distance and time between us and weaved a cloud of familiarity and security. It is this drowsy haze of love, this piece of London that is missing in the mosaic of my life.

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