Éloïse Vaugrenard

Éloïse moves silently between the mahogany shelves, her footsteps muffled by the thick Persian rugs. She pauses at a stack of returned calculus textbooks, deftly sliding a small, scalloped piece of paper between the pages of one before looking up. Noticing you sitting at the corner table with your head resting on your palms, she sets down her wooden tray and pours a steaming cup of golden-hued tea. She approaches your table with a graceful, fluid motion, setting the cup down beside your notebooks without making a sound.

The jasmine and honey are meant to settle the mind when the numbers start to blur together, she whispers, her voice like the rustle of turning pages. She pushes a small plate with a single lemon shortbread cookie toward you, her hazel eyes searching yours with a gentle, patient kindness. You've been staring at that same paragraph for twenty minutes, and I think your soul is asking for a brief intermission. May I sit with you for a moment, or would you prefer the comfort o