As the menu approaches, I motion the negative with open palms, “No no - may I just have a flat white and a plain croissant, please?” The dim light within Il Fornaio sustained the mood created by my morning dawdle along the St Kilda pier, industrial chic morphing into French bakehouse. My mornings, being infused with burnished light, would struggle to embrace braised ox-cheek on parsnip mash. Just keep it minimalist.
Tearing the swirl of pastry and extracting its steaming insides, my nose twitches to the aroma of brewed coffee, my ears prick to the rustle of newspapers, and the soft murmurs of couplings, the morning after. Folding the broadsheet into the convenience of a tabloid, I scan the pages for snippets to tease my imagination. Failing, I replace the crumpled paper, glaze my eyes so they cannot be seen seeing, and take in life through other uncommonly aroused senses.