“Strawberry jam again?” The woman asked, running the mere tips of her fingers over the dark stain on the Man’s dress-shirt. The man glanced around the laundromat in slight embarrassment.

Oh, how the man loved the woman’s voice. It was quiescent, gingerly, and it made him shiver. The man couldn’t seem to get the ringing of her smoothe words out of his head as he gazed at the cocky smirk on her face. 

Despite her age, she was beyond stunning, and the man always thought so, ever since his first visit to the woman. She wore the few wrinkles on her face with a proud grin, showing smile marks and crinkles around her eyes with an absence of timidity. The man admired her for her confidence. It made him more drawn to her. 

The man opened his mouth, trying to soften his voice as the woman would her own, “It was an accident.” His words came out broken and raspy with nerves. The man flushed with shame over his attempt. The woman, though, smiled.

“It’s always an accident,” she teased. 

The man watched the woman quietly work on his stained shirt, constantly checking his watch to make sure he wouldn’t be late to his shift at the market. He needed to make a living somehow. The woman quietly hummed as she dabbed a solution onto the darkened bit of the button up, scrubbing scrubbing scrubbing until it was barely noticeable. The man couldn’t help but watch her entire process. He’d seen it many times before, though it still mesmerized him. Her slightly grayed, golden locks fell from behind her ear as she focused on her work.

Handing the shirt back to the man, they locked eyes. The man took the moment, memorizing her eyes, her soul. He saw the light that they held, the urge to keep moving, keep living. The man could only wish for that sort of drive. What inspired her? What did she get out of this life? The man had many moments to ask, though he never seemed to bring himself to the task. After all, the man didn’t even know her name. 

“Be careful next time,” The woman said, turning to go back to her initial work. 

The man took a few deep breaths, trying to calm the millions of thoughts flying around his mind. He tucked his shirt in the crook of his elbow, staring at the woman just as she was about to disappear around the corner. 

“What’s your favorite food, Ma’am?” The man blurted, his cheeks still red as roses. 

The woman slowly turned back around, the soft smile still resting on her face, her cheeks slightly pink. 

“Pardon?” She didn’t quite sound offended, though rather intrigued by the man’s obscure question. The man nodded to confirm his words. “Chocolate croissants.” She mumbled, “I like chocolate croissants.”

The man nodded, rushing out the door in embarrassment. He was far too old to be nervous while talking to a woman. Alas, he was. His voice shook when he spoke, his knees buckled, his cheeks flushed and his words slurred. 

His mind always clouded with nothing but the thoughts of how beautiful the woman was, how hard it was to focus on anything else but her buttery voice and devine eyes, like two pools of everlasting youth. He wished to drive in them, to swim in them, to live in them. 

The next morning, on his way to work, the man picked up his usual strawberry donut, along with a chocolate croissant for the woman. The man took a bite out of his pastry, glancing around before smudging some of the jam onto his fresh button up. He smiled at the thought of seeing the woman again, he couldn’t help but nearly skip to the laundromat. What a beautiful day. 

“Is this becoming an everyday thing?” The woman asked, watching the man take off his button up, revealing his clean undershirt. “You know, you can always ask for napkins.” She smiled again, showing she wasn’t trying to be rude, she wasn’t trying to patronize him. She was teasing again. 

“I was just trying to get you a chocolate croissant, but I accidentally spilled my donut on my shirt again.” The man whined, handing her his shirt along with the small, bagged chocolate croissant. 

The woman stared at the man for mere moments before taking the shirt, leaving the croissant on the counter. The man couldn’t help but marvel at the look she gave him. Her eyes were slightly wide, her smile slowly dissipating. She didn’t seem sad, though she seemed surprised. It sent the feeling of fireworks through the man’s body. Oh, it was the best feeling. 

“Thank you,” the woman mumbled, moving back to the counter to eat her chocolate croissant. “I couldn’t have asked for a better breakfast.”

Those few words increased the man’s feeling. Explosions set off in his stomach, butterflies fluttered in his throat, noodles wobbled in his legs. The man wouldn’t have traded this moment for anything. 
 
Heavenly, the man thought, that’s the only word that could ever fit this moment. Heavenly. 

The man brought the woman a chocolate croissant everyday for nearly five weeks. He watched her face light up each and every time, never getting sick of her smile, getting practically drunk on her laugh. He could never get enough. He admired the way her mouth moved when she spoke to him, he admired the way her eyes explored his face as he responded. He admired it all. 

One day, the man came in on a rainy day. 

“Oh, gosh.” The woman sighed, “Get in here! You can’t be standing in the rain like that! You’ll get all wet.” 

The man watched her mouth again, her lips moving in a pattern so perfect to his eye, it seemed as though he would faint. The man held his stance steady as he softly took her arm. The man had never touched the woman. Her skin was surprisingly smoothe. The man rubbed his thumb over her wrist as he led her outside. 

“What are you doing?” She laughed. “I’m going to get all wet.” 

The man took her into the rain, taking both of her arms and placing them over his shoulders, around his neck. He laid his hands onto her waist, softly guiding her as he started to sway. 

“What are you doing?” The woman asked, a small giggle shining through her voice. “This is silly.”

“It’s not silly if you enjoy it.” The man smiled. “What’s your favorite song, Ma’am?” 

The woman thought and thought, her curiosity and confusion being substituted for pure bliss. She leaned closer into the man, her arms becoming more relaxed, her mind yearning to stay in this moment forever. 

“I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire,” the woman mumbled, “by The Ink Spots.” 

“Very well then.”

The man cleared his throat, his short hair starting to fill with water and drip down his neck. He tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling. Nothing could ruin this moment, after all. The man wouldn’t let it. 

“I don’t want to set the world on fire,” the man began, his voice going a tad bit higher than usual to fit the note, “I just want to start a flame in your heart.” 

The man continued, singing as the woman leaned her head against his chest, softly breathing. Though the man couldn’t quite see it, she was smiling with full content. The thoughts that used to whizz around her mind quieted, and the only thing she could think about was how beautiful this moment was. 

“I’ve lost all ambition, all worldly acclaim, I just wanna be the one you love.” The man’s voice got slightly groggy the more he sang, though he would clear his throat and continue, making sure nothing could change the feeling of her head against his chest. 

You are. You are the one I love. The woman thought, You’re better than anything I could’ve asked for.

The man woke up with a smile the next morning, something he’d been unable to experience for the longest time. He popped out of bed and put on his button up, ready to greet the woman as usual. The man greeted the young boy at the bakery. 

“The usual?” The boy asked, and the man nodded. 

The chocolate croissant was warm in the man’s hand as he carried it down the street. The man took a napkin and tucked it in the top of his dress-shirt, careful to keep it clean as he took a bite out of his strawberry donut. 

“The boy at the bakery knows our order by--”

The man paused as he walked into the laundromat. The woman wasn’t there. Instead stood a young girl with her hair in two french braids, the color like the trunk of a mighty oak. He stared at the girl for a while as she stared back. The girl cocked her head to the side. 

“Do you need something, sir?” 

“Where’s the woman that used to be here in the mornings?” The man asked, the chocolate croissant still tight in his grip. Perhaps she was merely taking a day off. No big deal. Perhaps she had a grandchild’s birthday. Makes sense. 

“I’m sorry, but she died, sir.” The girl’s voice became hushed. “She passed away in her sleep last night.”

The melancholy that filled the man, starting at his toes all the way up to the tips of his hair, made sure there was one thing the man could say. One thing he could do. 

“Oh,” He whispered. “Oh, that’s unfortunate.” 

The man turned around, leaving the store as quickly as he arrived. The man didn’t know what else to do other than to sit on a nearby bench and eat his donut. He unwrapped the chocolate croissant and stared at it, imagining the woman’s face when he would bring it into the laundromat. What a beautiful face it was. Pure rapture. 

The man took one bite of the chocolate croissant. 

Heavenly.

END