Des Collins studied the croissant carefully. It was a lovely shape: a quarter moon, looking delectable and roundly layered, its hue somewhere between rich honey and dusk sunlight. In the glass case, it appeared ready to offer a velvet-like welcome here and there to your finger once it made its way across the curved surface.
Des imagined the passage of the melting butter that he would put on the croissants in the morning, the yellow pat metamorphosing into gold, and dripping into and through the small caves and declivities of the soft bread, along with jam or honey, preserves or mulched fruit or, perhaps, just more butter.
"I'll take six," he said to Juana behind the counter, identified by her nametag.
Juana paused a moment, as though startled by Des’s looks. He was well more than six feet tall, with the kind of Malibu Beach blonde hair and sporty surfer self-regard that one rarely sees in New York City. Indeed he was just now wearing a Hawaiian shirt. In Southern California, such men abound, so that, there, Des really was nothing special. But when she had first seen him, his fiancée Beatrice, born in Brooklyn, had had a response to Des similar to Juana’s.
“You may look like a lot of those guys, Des,” Beatrice had once observed as they sat on a bench on the Santa Monica pier. She ran a few fingers through his hair, and then kissed him. Seagulls flew around. Surf rolled. “But you have charm and brains.”
Causes Terence Clarke Supports