hungry?

Marie-Jeanne returned at that moment with my breakfast, along with a tiny coffee to call my own. She lowered that coffee first, and a trail of strong, bitterly-scented steam rose from a single shot of pitch-black liquid, awakening my olfactory senses. Next came a small ceramic plate, holding a large, blonde croissant. It was big enough that the tips of the crescent reached over the edges, and because of the warmth radiating from it I could tell that it was freshly baked. She then took a small porcelain pitcher and from it, poured a drizzle of opaque golden honey butter over the pastry. I expected it to bead on the surface of the croissant, but surprisingly, instead it sank under the top layer and disappeared into the bread, leaving no visible trace outside. She finished pouring with a flourish and replaced the pitcher on her serving tray. After an obligatory smile for the others at the table, she disappeared back into the kitchen.

I gingerly picked up the warm croissant between my thumb and middle finger. It was so light and soft that even this gentle grip threatened to crush the delicate crust. I bit through the outer shell and hot, yeasty gasses from within the pastry burst out. When the flaky layers of puff pastry hit my tongue, they deflated and collapsed, reducing my large bite to just a small morsel of soft inner dough, soaking with buttery sweetness. Once the structural integrity was compromised by this first bite, the entire croissant began to lose its form, and I had no choice but to consume the entire thing in rapid, successive mouthfuls, which was easy due to its tendency to dissolve in my mouth. In just a few short seconds, I found myself staring incredulously at my empty hand and the few remaining flaky crumbs on my fingers. I subconsciously reached for my coffee, and the strong, hot, bitter brew cleansed the honey from my palate and awakened me from my food trance.