Out in the front end of the shop, the loud music of ABBA was blaring as Nikki was brewing up rich coffees. The music was seeping into my kitchen, the tones of "Fernando" was making my hips swivel around as I spun to grab a tray of mousse cups from the refrigerator. 

It was coming along beautifully. I'd planned to come in an hour early to make them, because it took four hours for them to set. There were three kinds, to give our customers variety: a dark, bittersweet chocolate that would have a light and very sweet tasting whipped cream on top, the flavors mixing together to give just that right kind of sweetness, but still an adult flavor. Another variety was a very sweet white chocolate mousse with a fruity strawberry jelly on top. You'd need a good sweet tooth for it, but I could think of a few of our regulars who'd love it. The third was a coffee flavored mousse that would compliment what our customers were drinking as well. The smell of it reminded me of fresh coffee grounds, and it would have a very strong taste. I was trying to avoid it tasting like coffee ice cream, and I'd triumphed. There'd be a light tasting coffee jelly on top, to compliment it and the colors would look fantastic in the tall cup. Each mousse, regardless of flavor, would have a bit of gold flaking leaf on top to tie them all together as a set. 

Mousse takes so long to make, but it would be worth it. I hadn't made a mousse variety in a while, and our customers always got excited to see them. They were indulgent and rich treat, something you couldn't eat every day. So, seeing them every so often gave them just that little bit more of excitement. 

There were trays of croissants cooling on tall racks behind me, as well as sweet breads like pain au chocolat and pain aux raisins. These were standard for us, and I set them out every day. There were some cakes also, but I'd made some normal flavors today. Mont blancs were something our customers were used to seeing, and were always a good seller. Strawberry shortcakes were also always our most popular, though I tried to put my own twist on them. They weren't the standard slice you'd see in bakery windows. All of my cakes were tall and circular, cut out and stacked artfully. Our strawberry shortcakes were decorated with strawberry slices on the outside of the cakes, and a star-like design of them on the inside layer, covered in cream. On top was another layer of cream and a whole strawberry. It was a feast for the eyes, as well as for the inner child. Baba au rhums were also a favorite of mine. They were a bit boozy, another kind of adult taste. I didn't make them every day, but at least once per week. 

The trick was making something familiar for everyone, so they'd trust what they were buying, and making the taste nostalgic so they'd come back, but putting my own twist so that it was different enough to be interesting. I also wanted to stay away from things that were more suitable for children. I knew our customers, and a lot of them were older. They'd seen a lot of things and had been around. They also didn't like things that were too sweet due to their age, which is tricky for a baker. So, I had to be creative and come up with other tastes to suit their picky palates. 

Sometimes, four hours just wasn't enough to make what I wanted to. I was too ambitious, and some things didn't work. I had to learn to train myself to be on time, and this meant being a champion multi-tasker. Did I have five minutes' time in between tasks? Start another. 

I was plopping whipped cream into the chocolate mousse cups when Nikki came through my kitchen door, sipping his usual latte. He made loud sipping noises, so I knew it was too hot. That meant it was fresh, though. He was wearing his bright blue rimmed glasses today, probably too lazy to put in contact lenses. He watched me apply the whipped cream with interest, and then his sneaky hand went to the racks and he grabbed a mini baba au rhum. 

"No bare hands," I tsked at him, not looking up for even a second. If he was done brewing coffee and setting up the front, then I knew I didn't have a lot of time before opening. More than likely, a couple of our regulars were already milling about outside reading the newspapers in the cold, waiting for eight o'clock to arrive. 

He made a taunting sound as if he were sticking out his tongue at me like a naughty child, and he was silent, meaning he was taking a bite. "Whoa," he said, his mouth still full of cake.

"What?" I asked, chancing to look up. The baba au rhum's fruits were colorful in his hand, just the effect that I'd wanted. He'd taken a bit out of the top, the tall, little cake marred now. The filling inside was peeking out, and he had a little of the cream on his upper lip. 

He licked his lip, and his eyes squeezed shut as he smiled. He snapped them open again. "We don't have a liquor license," he laughed. "What's in this? How much rum?"

"Mm, I added extra. I know Ayane likes it that way." I applied some gold leaf to the mousse cup I was working on. 

"I hope she buys them all, because whoa. Drinking in the morning. I'm no drunk." He was pleased, though, despite his attempt at being bitchy. 

"Is it good, though?" I asked. I went back to delicately applying gold leaf with tweezers. 

His silence was my answer. I peered up, blindly putting on gold leaf to chance to see. His eyes were closed again, savoring another bite of the little cake. A smile was on my lips as I went back to my work, as satisfied as he was. 

I leaned against the showcase as I watched the front. It was quiet in here, everyone reading or gazing at their cellphones. A few people had laptops. I was watching them eat the fruits of my labors, and they all seemed happy. In particular, the long and skinny spoons I'd chosen for my mousse cups made unique sounds on the glass, and hearing these continuously dip into the cups was the most satisfying thing of all. I had more mousse cups chilling in back. They were doing pretty well, so it was a good idea to have more being prepared. The coffee one was the surprise best seller of the day. I guess it just went too well with the coffee that people were already drinking, the perfect compliment to it. 

Nikki was dancing around, refilling people's coffees. We sold a lot of black coffee, because it was popular in France. One would think that fancy coffees would be staple French, but it was a misconception. Simple was best, especially when paired with patisserie treats. Since black coffee was our most popular cup, Nikki took great care in selecting the beans. The cup may have been simple to the eye, but what was going on inside was not typical. You paid a little more, but you were getting quality and something more special than something from Starbucks or really any other place. Our customers deeply appreciated this.

As I thought about coffee beans, the bell twinkled through the singing of the artist Patachou and her piano accompaniment up above. My eyes went up, and coming through the door was what was becoming a familiar face. He was smiling to himself a little, taking off his coat already as if he intended to stay for a long time. The computer bag on his shoulder told me it was the truth. 

"Welcome to French Cup!" Nikki and I both called out at practically the same time.

Gyeong-Wan gave us a grin at this, and perhaps shyly sat down near the door. He set himself up, and Nikki was next to him, giving him time to settle down. He plucked one of the white coffee cups off the stack in front of him, and Nikki loyally filled it. I watched him plop a sugar cube in, and creamers came next. 

Nikki gestured to our showcase, explaining what was new. Gyeong-Wan pointed at it, saying a few quiet words. Nikki nodded and came toward me.

"He wants a chocolate mousse," he told me, with military efficiency.

"I wonder if he likes chocolate? He likes to buy my chocolate candies, too," I wondered out loud to him. 

"Let's find out," he winked to me, as he ferried the mousse away on a small white plate. 

As he set it in front him, and that long spoon dipped inside grandly, I let out a small and happy sigh. Every bit of this seemed like it was right. Things fitting into place like a last puzzle piece. It was a new feeling, but the best one of all. 

He seemed like a quiet sort of guy. He hadn't spoke much last night at our little funeral, but he'd seemed respectful at the same time. He wasn't weirded out or making grimacing faces. In fact, his expression had been sincere and caring. He'd went along without complaint, even getting his hands literally dirty. He'd had all the respect in the world for what we were doing, even lingering at the end, not wanting to run away.

I'd initially been very worried that all of it would make him never come back, but that lingering at the end made me more comfortable. There was something gentle about him. He wasn't like other guys. 

As I watched him, I had to turn away. Thinking about him like this. Learning more about him, how clumsy he is, his perhaps gentle nature. There was much more to him than looks. I got out my cleaner and sprayed it into a cloth. As nervousness spread about my body, I began cleaning. If I had five minutes time to stand around, start another task. Start another task, if I'm too nervous and my thoughts are all over the place. 

Very quickly, he was making me fall apart. Thinking about all of the aspects of him. 

I was a good multi-tasker, though. I could think about him as I cleaned, and as the mousse set in my kitchen. I could crouch behind the showcase, cleaning the baseboards for the second time in three days, if I was blushing too much to show my face.