A/N: A "mood" exercise from one of my freshman college classes (2014). Title is the mood I was going for.



At half-past 21:00, as I saunter down a narrow street in the Croix-Rousse of Lyon, a small scarlet sign attracts my eye. Upon its hard metal face is painted a café cup and a little arrow pointing downs towards a half-hidden door. After a day of familiarizing myself with every nook, cranny, and crevice of the district's olden traboules, one also offering a hot drink and relaxation is definitely appealing.

The intimate space is dimly lit, only a few lanterns used to fill the rooms with warm, pinkish-gold light. I am one of just four customers, the other three filling a corner of the shop at hardwood tables. One of them smokes, a thick haze concealing their shadowed bodies. I slide up to the counter and, while I consider a tart or cream-filled puff, only order a vanilla latte from the patron, who also wears curling tendrils of smoke from the cigarette nestled into his taut lips. I study him, his unkempt eyelashes and unabashed frosting stains, as he pulls long knobs and pushes buttons. Coffee spurts into a glistening black mug. The porcelain cup is guided to my waiting hands and I pay for his service.

As I turn to scrutinize the space for the perfect seat, I take a teasing sip of the drink. The steaming liquid splashes across my palate and the whipped cream tickles my upper lip. My tongue darts out to lick off the hot froth as I lay my eyes on a plush mauve sofa in the heart of the room that is practically begging me to sit on it. I wade from my spot at the counter, letting my fingers graze the polished wood of passing tables and the soft fuzz of an emerald armchair.

Upon reaching the seat, I grip the edge of my skirt to keep it down while I sit. I lower myself onto the lavish cushion and, despite my efforts, my skirt rides up and the worn velvet caresses my thighs. Settling back with a sigh, I take another languid swallow of my latte and cross my legs. The sweet taste makes me smile, and the hot liquid filling me, warming my insides, has me relaxing even further into the enveloping cushions.

Eyes half-lidded in my satisfaction, I glance through my lashes at the sparse décor. Bronze candlesticks stand on some tables, very few lit, casting dancing shadows on the floor. A dark rug lies under the only window, matching the long curtains and the window-seat pillows. Through the dirty glass I see a stone courtyard shaded in night and probably chill, and am glad I'm here instead, warm, sated.

A/N: nothing major, I know LOL. Hope you enjoyed nonetheless.