Poppy's Blush

Tomatoes, Potatoes, and Poppyseeds (I)

The lights in the cafe flickered on, though they were barely needed as the early morning sun hit the wide, front windows, lighting every possible surface and casting a generally pleasant glow about the place. Working the opening shift of your own cafe really isn't that bad, Poppy figured. He'd done most of the cleaning the night before, so there wasn't much more to prepare before unlocking the doors. Besides having his own morning coffee, that is.

Poppy had been managing the cafe his uncle owned for roughly two months now. Like anything in life, it took some adjusting, but Poppy had always felt more at home in the city than in the suburbs where he grew up. It was so much more lively, more diverse, and generally had better food within arm's reach at any given moment. His 'little-village-girl' dreams, funny enough, were much more easily realized here, too. His face was already recognized by the family that owned the laundromat down the street!

Poppy paused mid-sip of his latte. Laundry. He shimmied down the counter to the little pen cup by the register and grabbed the 'cherry tomato' Krayola marker. He scribbled the reminder down smack in the middle of his forearm. That's something he could get done on his way to the farmer's market, which he also made a note of on the back of his hand.

With prep and coffee finished, the cafe's doors were unlocked. Within a half hour, a steady stream of early risers were milling about in a loose line before the counter. The first of which, as always, was Jupiter Sade. One of those stereotypical salaryman types. He looked a smidge less dead-inside today.

"Thanks, Poppy. I'll be back." The man gave a light-hearted, weary eyeroll as he shifted his laptop bag on his shoulder. Then he slunk up the stairs to the little loft behind the counter.

Man, even a distracted, tired businessman remembered his name. Poppy stood a little straighter, his voice a little brighter as he took the next order.

And that's how days tended to be here. Busy mornings, lunch breaks that involved paninis hot off the dinky sandwich press, and an assortment of cheerful lo-fi or comfortable jazz; whichever seemed to suit the day.

The weekends were a little different. The cafe still opened, though only for mornings, then closed at 2pm. This gave Poppy time to run errands and have at least a small life outside of coffee and sandwiches. His common stops were the laundromat, the local Picky Pantry, and the farmer's market. If he was lucky to have the energy, he also delighted in a trip to China Town for hot pot or dim sum.

It was another bright afternoon when Poppy finally got around to picking up what he needed to try making shakshuka for the first time. It didn't sound too hard. Just fresh veg and eggs. Though the idea of cooking still made him nervous, Poppy pushed himself to try new dishes often. Though they often came out way blander than the corny life stories crowding the articles made them out to be.

Poppy turned a corner and was greeted by a green awning shielding bins upon bins of fresh produce from the sun. The scent of quality vegetables wafted faintly towards him, carried by the much stronger scent of the potted flowers the shop also had displayed on a rack along the sidewalk.

Normally, this greeting would put the fear of cooking right out of his mind, instead inspiring him to really push his new culinary knowledge. However, there was a new addition to the displays that broke the rhythm in Poppy's steps.

There appeared to be a werewolf, casual as anything, standing by the bins as he took a selfie with a passerby.