A TASTE OF RETREAT: A year too late.

**** The Gastronomique Festival was a symphony of clinking porcelain and cultivated laughter. Maya Amani moved through it with the focused grace of a nursing student on a shift which, in a way, she was home for the summer break. Her uniform was a flour-dusted apron, her wards were the hungry, wealthy guests, and her charge was her mother’s dream: Amina’s Table. Her mother, Chef Amina, was a whirlwind of spice and steel, a single mother who’d built a reputation on flavor and fearlessness. Maya had inherited the fearlessness, but years of watching her mother struggle alone had layered it with caution. Men, especially the ones with the easy confidence of money, were to be observed from a distance. She was balancing three empty platters when she saw him. He stood near the oyster bar, a giant among the crowd. He had to be 6'4" at least, with a build that spoke of disciplined hours at a gym,broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist under a simple but impeccable nice tailored maroon shirt. His skin was the rich, warm brown of dark amber, and his face uhh!! handsome wasn’t the right word. It was strong. Arresting. He looked young, maybe late twenties, but his eyes as they scanned the room held a weary knowledge that intrigued her. Their eyes met. It was just a second, a flicker across the crowded, fragrant air. But in that second, the noise faded. Maya’s breath hitched. He didn’t smile. He just… looked with confusion and nonchalance Flustered, she hurried into the kitchen, her heart doing a strange, quick tap against her ribs. Observe, assess, act, she reminded herself. He’s just a guest. Later, as she was delivering a tagine to another table, she saw him again. He and his friend,a lighter-skinned man in stylish glasses standing at her mother’s stall, studying the menu board. Her mother was busy at the hearth. Maya took a steadying breath and approached. “Welcome to Amina’s Table. Can I help you?” The big man turned. Up close, he was even more formidable, but his expression was polite. “You can. I’m not sure what to order but I can trust your expertise. What’s the best thing here?” His voice was a deep, calm baritone. It suited him. Maya’s mind, trained to make quick assessments, ran through the menu. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head: Never undersell the art. “The Wagyu beef tagine with black truffle,” she said. “It’s our signature. And our most expensive.” A slow, appreciative smile spread across his face. “Sold. And your name?” “Maya.” “Leo,” he said, nodding. “This is Kofi.” She placed the order, feeling the weight of his attention as she worked. He and Kofi took their seats, and he ate with a focused appreciation that impressed her. He wasn’t just consuming; he was savoring. The festival hit its peak frenzy. Maya was a blur of motion—taking orders, clearing tables, refilling drinks. At one point, she rushed past Leo and Kofi’s table, her arms full of dirty dishes. “Maya.” His voice stopped her. She turned. He was standing now, having gotten up as she passed. He was so tall. He didn’t step into her space, just inclined his head slightly. “I don’t want to hold you up. You’re clearly swamped. But I’d regret it if I didn’t ask.” He pulled out his phone, his manner direct but not aggressive. “Can I have your number?” Her world narrowed. She could see Lola, her mother’s friend and business partner, watching from the next stall over, her lips pursed. She could feel the phantom glare of her mother, who was thankfully turned away, commanding her sauces. The rules were clear: Don’t get distracted because there’s a lot of work. Focus on the goal. But Leo just stood there, waiting, his phone in his hand, his friend Kofi offering an encouraging, non-intrusive smile. Panic made the decision for her. “It’s 07700 900642,” she recited in a rushed whisper, her eyes darting toward Lola. He typed it in, his thumbs moving swiftly. “Got it. I’ll text you.” “Okay,” she breathed, and immediately hurried away, her face burning, the dirty dishes in her arms suddenly feeling like a shield. As she pushed through the kitchen doors, his voice followed her, calm and clear over the crowd’s din. “Hope you gave me the right number!” The cheek of it! The sheer, decent confidence. It broke through her panic. From the safety of the kitchen doorway, she turned and called back, “Yes I did! I’m not childish!” She saw his brilliant, white smile flash in response a smile of pure victory before the doors swung shut. In the steamy, chaotic quiet of the kitchen, she leaned against the cool stainless steel, her apron dirty, her feet aching, her mind racing. He looked like he is in his late twenties if he was a day. She was just 18, a student, her life mapped out in textbooks and clinical hours. He was a man from a different planet. Her phone, tucked in her apron pocket, vibrated. A text from an unknown number lit up the screen. Unknown: This is Leo. It was a pleasure, Maya. The message was simple. Respectful. And it changed everything. The decent, handsome giant had her number. And against all her mother’s warnings and her own better judgment, a part of her was desperately glad he did.