*Note: this post is part of an Everyday Inspiration 20-day writing prompt program I’m participating in. Today’s Prompt: A story in a single image.
“Promise you’ll save room for dessert in the Village,” she quipped, trying to keep the mood light, before unbuckling her seatbelt. Maurice squeezed her hand as confirmation before stepping out to help unload her bags. If anyone would celebrate her new life over a slice of creme brûlée, it was best friend Maurice, who’d insisted on driving her here.
Stepping onto the curb to face the eternally-revolving giant glass doors at Philadelphia’s 30th Street station, she felt a momentary wave of panic: am I crazy? Everyone, except for Maurice, who self-admittedly was a little crazy himself, seemed to think so:
“but you just got promoted!”
“you two seemed so happy”
“I thought it was just a hobby”
“what if you fail?”
Too late now. They were already interviewing for her replacement (seeking PR manager to nurture strong industry network, generate enviable corporate image…). She’d said it’s over and meant it this time to her ‘it was just innocent flirting’ boyfriend. Forked over (literally) two paychecks worth of tuition money to the Culinary Institute in NYC. This was no longer a hobby.
Once through the glass doors, however, her disposition changed. Dwarfed by 80-foot columns and a coffered ceiling nudging the Heavens, she wondered – how many other fresh journeys began here? Opulent marble floors amplifying the echoes of heels conjured images of nattily-dressed ladies in gloves and gents in fedoras (before the days of ‘Athleisure’) saying goodbye without a guarantee there’d be a future hello. Leaving the past in style to somewhere exciting and new. Cathedral-like windows allowed varying degrees of light that beamed possibility – maybe she would make it as a Michelin-starred pastry chef.
“Swapping press releases for puff pastries, are we?” her snarky but lovable colleague joked as they clinked champagne flutes and nibbled on devil’s food cake (a subtle omen??) at last week’s going away party. She’d miss justifying the cost of a pair of Louboutins or Chloe pencil skirt as work wear. It was aprons and toques from now on.
And maybe it was innocent flirting. He was a TV sports anchor after all. Naturally he’d get attention in public. Was she being overly clingy? Didn’t matter now. She’d ended it clearly enough by moving her stuff out of his apartment into off-site storage. And sure she’d graduate, but what can a novice pastry chef, at age 45, honestly expect to earn?
Taking one final look around the lobby as the platform announcement came across the speaker, she relaxed. Confidence took over. I’m not crazy, and I’m ready to begin anew.
One rolling pin and pie crust at a time.