Disclaimer:
I do not own any of the copyrighted characters mentioned in this story. I do not own any of the Konami rhythm games (DDR, Beatmania, Guitar Freaks etc.). Tart & Toffee belong to Tomosuke Funaki.
Author's Notes:
For the GTA fans who are probably pissed that I'm writing an entirely new story instead of finishing Vercetti's Pet, well...I'm sorry. But if it makes you feel better, I do intend to finish the story...eventually! Anyway, this story was inspired by my favorite Bemani composer, Tomosuke Funaki. The man is a genius, but I am particularly fond of his work done under his Orange Lounge alias. Seriously. It's not only fun to play but his work is also pretty nice to listen to casually.
This story takes place from the eyes of an outsider who is a frequent customer of a unique and elusive caf▌, which is also nameless. This shop is operated by two mysterious sisters who were raised by France. A quiet observer who is not only fascinated with the sanctuary that is the cafe, but the sisters as well. Right now, it's going to be a one-shot, but if there are people who would love to read more, then I'd be more than happy to give!
Also, because I would hate to disrespect the French language, any French spoken throughout this story (with the exception of song lyrics and short, common phrases) will be written in English and italized. Oh, and please forgive my laziness with formatting.
I hope you enjoy!
I couldn't have been more ecstatic to leave school that day. I heard the loose change in my jeans pocket jingle as I packed up my text books into my oversized tote. I exited the building in a rush, only to be greeted by the heavy shower of rain outdoors. My kinky hair was instantly soaked. Defeated, I covered my tote with my arms, and got into my car. I drove out of the parking lot with my medley of pocket change in hand.
About ten minutes later, I approached the lovely and charming coffee shop where I would spend another late afternoon finishing my college work. Stepping out, I again shielded my work from the soothing precipitation. I entered the restaurant, closing my eyes and inhaling the warm aroma of its atmosphere. "Bon-jour!" I heard from one of the baristas at the counter as she waved at me. I returned the gesture and smiled, but did nothing more than that.
God, do I love this place. I stumbled upon it maybe about eight months ago because the convenience store across the street (where I usually purchased m y coffee) from it was destroyed by a fire.
It's a small building on the corner of the block, nested between a nail salon and a gift shop. The walls on the inside of the building are a creamy, smooth, brown complimented by one wall with an energetic burnt orange. Orange paper lanterns of spherical and rectangular shapes hung from the ceiling by thin wires. The inside corner of the store was where the door and a small platform stage was located. Well, at least it was a stage during the weekdays, a few tables and chairs usually sat there. There was an assortment of tables throughout the room. The tables with three or more chairs were relatively larger than the round tables for the parties with one or two people. The sizes of these tables encouraged intimate conversations. The chairs were sort of on the thin side with a fancy French wire structure. Near the stage was another corner where there was a comfy worn sofa and a few armchairs.
As if the layout of the shop wasn't inviting and calming enough, there was also a large menu of delicacies written on a blackboard with colored chalk that hung on the wall behind the counter. The menu itself did not consist of that many choices, but what was available was a delicious array of both American and European desserts and entrees. From steamy panini sandwiches on toasted focaccia bread, to fluffy and sinfully scrumptious crepes, to the bouncy Flan that you'll never find anywhere else. The coffee wasn't that special because there was always the option to add flavoring syrups to it, however there is one flavor that I have been addicted to ever since I tried it. It was called "pot-pourri d'orange" and it sent my tastebuds into a whirlwind of ecstasy each and every time.
After falling under the spell of the cafe again, I slowly approached the counter, my eyes scanning the menu as if I was not going to order the usual. Before I knew it, I was next in line.
"Hello." I said to the blond, emerald-eyed barista, with a warm smile.
"Bon-jour! What will you be having today, customer?" She asked with her French accent. I had to smile on the inside of that. Granted the cafe has been pretty successfull since it's opening, business was usually pretty slow on days like these. For some reason, I was one of the few customers who were acutally addressed as "customer". That makes me feel special.
"Two chocolate-almond biscottis please, and a medium cup of pot-pourri d'orange." I replied, counting the change I had in my hand, trying to make as little eye contact as possible.
"Oui, oui! You have really taken a liking to our house syrup." She smiled again. I smiled back, without looking up from counting my change.
"Unfortunately, we don't have any biscottis right now, but if you don't mind waiting for about ten minutes, we will have some fresh ones from the oven for you."
This caused me to look up and into her cool, sparkling eyes and lovely smile between a set of natural pink lips. I looked away quickly before she could see me blushing. I nodded with a nervous chuckle, brushing my wet, curly hair from in front of my eyes.
"Heh. Okay, that's fine. I don't mind waiting." I said. "How much do I owe you"
"No, no, no." She said, holding up her palm. "It's out fault you can't have your biscottis right away. Don't worry about it"
"Are you sure?" I asked. She nodded and ushered me down the counter to take the next customer behind me. I got a good look at the name sewn in on her baby pink apron. "Tart" it read.
As she recorded the next person's number, smiling, and batting her eyelashes and speaking with that adorable French accent, I couldn't take my eyes off her. She was...something! Don't get me wrong, I'm not gay, but she is the most breathtaking person I will ever come across during the course of my lifetime. She was on the short side, about 5"5 or so, but then I'm six feet even so that makes about everyone short from this height. Her hair was an assymetrical mess of short golden curls, most of which she was brushing from her face almost constantly. Her large, round eyes were a dark green, like a patch of ivy leaves. She had the sweetest and most wholesome round face with a pale, blemish-free skin tone. Her hands were small and dainty, and her fingeclear-maintained. Her voice was high-pitched, but soft like a whisper.
Now if you don't think that's breathtaking to see out the blue, I was even more blown away after seeing her twin! I have yet to see her today, but she is also just as beautiful. They looked nearly identical in every way. Only her sister's hair was the color of dark cocoa; her curls also astray and interfering with her line of vision. Those curls looked like chocolate syrup, spun into short, flat ribbons. Her eyes were slightly larger and rounder than the latter, and were a honey-like shade of hazel rather than green. Her hands were also small, but she had noticeably longer fingers. Her skin too was pale, but not as pale as the blonde's. I didn't know them personally, but I would secretly observe their sisterly antics in between studying.
"Toffee! Are those biscottis done yet?" Tart asked, shouting from where she was standing.
"Almost!" Toffee shouted back from the kitchen. "Don't rush me, it's hot in here!" She added, speaking French that I wish I had learned back in high school. The blonde threw her head back with a hearty laugh.
They not only looked wonderful together, they were very gifted. Every Friday, the tables and chairs on the stage would be replaced with microphone stands, speakers, and musical instruments in preparation for the festivities taking place that following weekend. I managed to catch a few shows. Poetry would be read aloud by whomever was confident enough to tell to the audience what they were thinking, artwork would be displayed by whomever was creative enough to show the audience what they were thinking, and music would be played by whomever was gifted enough to let the audience hear what they were thinking.
However, one and only one Saturday night out the entire month would the twins grace the stage with their presence. Next to the paradise of the coffee shop and the food itself, their presentations were what kept many of us customers running back to the shop on the weekends. The stage would be decorated with strings of pink, orange and amber lights. I remember the first performance I'd seen by them. The tiled floor around the stage littered with ribbons of dried lemon, orange and lime peels. This made the restaurant smell like java, with a snapping tinge of citrus. I thought it was strange, but the sisters are strange too, but refreshingly so.
The lights (with the exception of the tiny ones surrounding the stage) would dim, and everyone's attention would be fully focused on the platform. Toffee, would be sitting behind a piano, facing the audience sideways. Tart would be squatting over a backless stool with her feet apart, strumming the first notes of their songs on a large bass with her tiny fingers. Toffee would come in with her piano, which she played gracefully. The two would sing into well-stationed microphones in a harmonious chorus of French. Then-
"Customer?" I heard, being interrupted from my crushing reverie.
"Hmm?" I asked, snapping from my daze.
"Your biscottis! Bon apetit!" Toffee smiled, looking up at me with those marvelous hazel eyes. I nodded, returning the smile and made my way to the condiment island, to prepare my taste buds for more pot-pourri.
END
Again, if you want more, I'll consider it! I liked it. This also relates to the feeling of being so fascinated by someone who looks, acts, and is just so unique and fantastic in all of their splendor! Male or female, I'm sure you've had the experience. Thanks a lot!