Every morning is the same

Every morning is the same. British fog surrounds me, when I try to walk through crowd. Crowd so dense like in the middle of wasp hive. I do some steps on wet streets beneath crying sky. Rivers, lakes everyday on my path, everyday in different place. And then… that smell of French bread in the air. I open the door. See shelves filled by candies and cakes. And she… her soft hands, that packs my beloved puff pastry with apples. So sweet, so tempting - like her lips. With icing so shining, as her eyes do. How much for it? Too few. What about Bulgarian vine in the evening, Italian lasagne for dinner… Spanish passion during whole night and English breakfast in bed in the morning? Bath in champagne full of Mediterranean breeze. Thai massage? French kiss? I take what is mine and I go further. Somewhere there is waiting for me… small, black, aromatic… cup of coffee… best with puff pastry.