Café of Flowers

You sigh almost angrily as you flick through your closet's hangers, trying to decide on a shirt. "Come on, Mika," you scold past the mango Dumb-Dumb between your lips, "you want to impress him, don't you?" Probably not the shirt with a porcupine in a tree, you're not that into animals anyways. Another no to the one tiled in tiny watermelons. You finally settle on a daffodil-yellow tanktop and a black-and-gold plaid hoodie.

Next, you waltz over to your dresser, pulling open the top drawer with a hum. Underclothes next. After much flitting and flinging, you find a matching set; a deep chocolate brown with butter-yellow lace trim. The panties say "I ain't your baby" across the butt. Pulling on white jeans and your tops on after them, you slip into a pair of rugged black boots, then practically skip out to your car to drive downtown, crunching on your sucker in nervous excitement.

He's waiting there, at the old café. He's slouched in a metal-latticed chair as he smokes a thin cigarette, clad in a purple-white-grey-black striped tee and faded bluejeans. A cream beanie rests on short curls dyed lilac. You beam as you park hastily, throw out your sucker stick, and practically fall over yourself getting out onto the sidewalk. Your first internet boyfriend is absolutely /adorable./

"Palloix!" you shout/laugh, and he jolts, pale green eyes wide as they search for the person what called his name. Spotting you, he smiles lopsidedly, waving you over.

"Hey, Mika. Surprised you got the pronunciation right, you damned American." God, his French accent is to die for. At his quip, you feign hurt, a hand over your ample chest as you flop down onto the empty chair across from him, and your bright red hair flops right behind you. "You wound me, Frenchy. I'm sooo sorry we don't have good enough baguettes and towers for your high-class tastes." He laughs a beautiful laugh, actually smiling, and you might just melt right here.

You think this might go really well.