Small Pleasures Novels & Stories

Everything we owned could fit into a worn duffel bag. Suddenly, Dad pushed the door open and walked in. Nervously, I stepped in front of Mom. To my surprise, he took one look at what we were doing and actually looked somewhat relieved. "It's about time you threw those rags away. It keeps this place from looking like a homeless shelter." He tossed a plastic bag toward us. "I brought you some leftovers." I used to see this kind of food all the time when I helped the adults pack scraps for dogs. I didn't move, and Mom held me steady.

The morning passes in a blur of logistics. Breakfast arrives — coffee, pastries, fruit, eggs, the kind of hotel spread that is designed to look effortless and requires three people to arrange. Celeste eats methodically, the way she does everything, and I find myself watching her across the small table, noticing the way she breaks her croissant into precise pieces before eating them, the way she adds exactly one sugar to her coffee and stirs it seven times. These are the small geometries of a person, the rituals that emerge when you spend enough time with someone to see past the performance.

"I want to remember the small things." "The small things," Alexander said. "The things that don't make it into the annual report. Coffee in the morning. The dog at the foot of the bed. The way you look when you're reading. The way you laugh when something is actually funny. The way you said 'the south-facing bed' like it was a perfectly normal thing to call your husband." Alexander was quiet for a moment. "I didn't say that," he said. "You said I was like the south-facing bed."

The plush carpet underfoot added a touch of comfort and luxury, making the room feel more like a home and less like a grand, impersonal space. I turned my attention to the small details that would make all the difference to Grandma. On her bedside table, I placed a framed photograph of her and Grandpa, a cherished memory that always brought a smile to her face. Beside it, I arranged a vase of fresh flowers, their fragrance filling the room with a sweet, calming scent.

I had to take a quick shower to wash off all the sweat. I wore a short armless gown with flowery designs and pink heels to match it. I checked the time, and Carter should be here any moment from now. I went back downstairs and set the table. I placed the two scented candles I bought from the mall at the centre of the table, served the food, and sprinkled some white roses on the table. Satisfied by what I'd done, I went to the living room to wait for him. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. I was so happy that I almost ran to the door, but I maintained composure. "Hey, baby." I hugged him as I opened the door.

It seemed that the man in front of her, despite all his friendliness and determination, also had his secrets. Suddenly getting up, Joshua broke the melancholy mood, stretched making a lot of noise, and winked at her, playfully. "Now shall we have dinner? I'll fix us something to eat." "It's just that I'm not very hungry.... These cookies have been enough." "More for me, then. But if I were you, I'd eat at least some." . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Simple. I ran my fingers through my hair and dug the tablet from my purse as I walked down the hall to the gym. Sheesh, I needed to clean this thing out. Or maybe not. I kind of liked having random stuff like three pens, a mini-notebook, two ChapSticks, and a half-eaten Hershey’s bar in the bottom of it. Because God forbid I did that back home. It was the little acts of rebellion that made me feel strong. I hummed Ariana Grande’s song “Break Free” to myself. Such a guilty-pleasure song, and I was indulging in all the guilty pleasures right now. One bar of chocolate too much, one more glass of wine . . . kissing a handsome, tattooed rock star.

**A Glimpse of Hope** The morning light filtered through the thin curtains of their small room, casting a gentle glow over the worn furniture and wooden floors. Lillian awoke to the soft sounds of the town outside—footsteps on the cobblestone streets, the distant murmur of voices, the faint clinking of dishes from a café nearby. It was a comforting contrast to the chaos of the last few days, a reminder that the world could still be quiet and ordinary.

It was a treasure trove of flavors, each ingredient a key to unlocking the secrets of a delicious dish. In the corner, a small breakfast nook with a cozy, built-in bench provided a perfect spot to savor a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, its table already set with simple, elegant place settings. The room hummed with the sound of chopping, stirring, and the occasional clink of glass and metal, underscored by the gentle murmur of conversation and laughter.

He could taste it in the air more than the food itself. From his perspective, the meal before them was nothing extravagant. A simple dish of pasta, lightly seasoned, paired with a warm corn soup that held a gentle sweetness. It wasn’t remarkable. Not in complexity, not in boldness. But it was honest. Comforting in the way humble meals often were. And surprisingly, it wasn’t bad.