I am putting the finishing touches on a decadent display of macarons when an impossibly chic Parisian woman enters the bakery. She balances a lush bouquet of freesia in one arm and shopping bags in the other. Her strawberry blonde hair is tousled just-so. As she moves through the shop, perusing our selection, an intoxicating aroma of blond tobacco mingles with the vanilla-laced pastry cases. Excusez-moi. Her voice is smooth and rich. She points to a cake adorned with roses and figs. This one please. I move toward her in a daze, exhausted from working since before sunrise.

I lift the cloche covering the cake. Its scent, once muted by a glass case, is instantly amplified. Délicieuse, she murmurs. What follows is a blur. One moment, I am lifting the heavily laden cake from its perch. The next, it is tumbling through the air, sending toppings flying. We all end up on the ground. Woman, me, cake. Freesia blooms scattered everywhere. There is cream in her hair and streaked across my cheek. We look at each other, too stunned to speak. But then, she starts to laugh. The musical sound echoes throughout the store. I help her up and try to wipe the crumbs from her silk blouse. Délicieuse, délicieuse! When I wake, my mouth is watering.