ANDRÉ BAUDELAIRE
Her voice. Soft, sensuous and melodic, triumphed over the occasional clatters of utensils, the unceasing chattering that belonged to the customers trooping in and out of the Cafe and the whooshing of cars that sped past the bustling road.
"Don't worry, Charlotte. I have got it." She dismissed her friend.
"But—"
"I swear, I'll handle it."
"Fine," Her friend resigned.
Each word was laced with a soothing amount of softness that struck me like a form of hypnosis where I stood across the street, debating on whether to head for the Café or turn around and head back home. It was like a strong compulsion, the more I resisted, the harder my restraint waned.
Despite the distance between us, I could feel her aura so strongly. It oozed off her in waves. An enchanting allure of
