Small Pleasures Novels & Stories

Becca ~”Do you want another glass? Sammy ~”Why not, let's do.” I pour us a glass each and look over to where the cabin is. Becca ~”This champagne is really good, for a minute there I thought I saw the guys.” Sammy ~”That would be hilarious, especially when they see how trashed we are at eleven in the morning.” I lay back on the blanket and close my eyes...I hear a rustle in the grass...it is probably just a bird...then another...

She lit a few candles, creating a cozy atmosphere that invited relaxation and conversation. Sitting down to dinner, Hazel savored each bite, appreciating the flavors and textures that came together to create a delicious meal. She felt grateful for the simple pleasures of a home-cooked dinner, shared with loved ones and enjoyed in the comfort of her own space. As the evening drew to a close, Hazel cleaned up the kitchen, feeling a sense of contentment wash over her. She knew that tomorrow would bring new adventures and challenges, but for now, she was happy to bask in the glow of a day well-spent, filled with grocery shopping, cooking, and the joy of simple pleasures.

3 years later "Mam are we still rejecting the offer? it's quiet huge" The secretary named Tracy asked her boss sitting on chair with the back of seat facing her "Isn't the contract offering too much for a small company like ours? it's suspicious" Tracy was star struck. SMALL COMPANY????? This company is listed in top 10 biggest companies of whole country. "But mam..." "Tracy clear my schedule for the night and bring me a coffee" Tracy had no room for argument. she politely shook her head and walked out.

To have favorite cups, and friends, and places that remember your name. When I finished the coffee, the cup had gone cold. I don’t even know how long I’d been staring out the window, just watching people go by. Some with dogs, some holding flowers, a man arguing softly into his phone, all of it small and ordinary and beautiful. I used to think life had to be big to mean something. Turns out, it’s the small things that stay.

The kind of peaceful that made you think of settling down. I played along. Smiled. Laughed when they did. Nodded like I meant every word. Forty minutes in, I stood and gently mentioned I had to go pick up my car. Her grandma understood right away. She was a sweet lady. “Wait,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with two things: a sealed jar of golden honey and a paper bag of cookies that still felt warm. “Take these. You look like someone who needs sweetness.” I didn’t know what to say. So I just said, “Thank you, ma’am. Really.”

I said softly. As she left, I glanced at the tray. It was simple but thoughtful: fresh fruit, scrambled eggs, toast, and a cup of tea. The smell was comforting, and for a moment, I allowed myself to enjoy the quiet luxury. It was strange, to be cared for in even the smallest ways.

I pushed the thought away, distracted by the warmth of his body as he moved into the living room. I retreated to the kitchen, the silence from the living room was a canvas waiting to be painted. I made his coffee, the steam curling up like a question mark. I slowly brought it to him, my hands trembling slightly. He reached out to take the cup, but his fingers brushed against mine, lingering just a second and too long. The touch was electric, a spark that connected us in a way words couldn't. A smile touched his lips, and the warmth of his gaze sent a flush rushing to my cheeks.

Those were small things. She had spent two years learning that small things were never small. Small things were the whole story. The oats in the grocery store. The book with no note. The cheese counter. The right record without asking. The person who showed up at exactly two o'clock because they understood that the details were the message. He had showed up at two o'clock exactly. She had noticed. She let herself have noticed. Then she went to sleep.

Night falls the way Monaco does night: slow, elegant, too pretty for a filthy day like this. My house is warm with small lamps in the corners, with the lemon scent from the hand soap, with the sound of a pan I’m banging a little too hard because my hands need to take it out on something I can’t name. Poppy eats dinner with enthusiasm. Tiny spaghetti, light tomato sauce, a little parmesan. I cut the meatball into four, then eight, then sixteen, because that’s how I manage my life now: by the size of the meat chunks.

MILES Sunday mornings were always a sanctuary for me, a time to rejuvenate and find solace in the simple pleasures of life. With a spring in my step, I made my way to the quaint little café tucked away on a peaceful corner. As I entered the café, I was greeted by the familiar aroma of freshly ground coffee beans, floating in the air like a comforting embrace. The soft jazz music playing in the background soothed my soul, as I made my way to my usual spot near the window. The cozy booth overlooked a small park, where people walked their dogs or simply basked in the early morning sunshine.