Small Pleasures Novels & Stories

he said, casually as someone asking if she liked the color blue. She told him about the elderly woman who ran it, how she kept a sprig of lavender behind the counter and how she always let Rose—Nova, sometimes—buy a day-old croissant for less if she smiled like she meant it. She told him the little rituals, the hours when the light hit the display case and made everything look edible and sacred. He listened as if she were describing a scripture. He asked questions the way someone asks when they are trying to build a map of a strange country. “I like that you have small things that feel safe,” he said. “The world is loud; those are the places you can carry with you.” His thumb circled the ins

“It makes you notice the small things.” “Like what?” he asked, leaning slightly closer, though still respecting the space between us. “The way someone stirs a pot,” I said, smiling. “The way they watch the rain hit the window. Little moments that tell you… they’re human, real and thoughtful.” He looked at me for a long moment with steady eyes and I realized he was considering my words as carefully as I had said them. Then he laughed quietly, the sound was low and warm. “You notice a lot,” he said, shaking his head.

I'd forgotten how to do it. We often overlook the tiny things, such as the pungent aroma of freshly mown grass. In a rush of wind, the way your hair tickles your neck. Things like sipping water from an outdoor faucet and being drenched. Crouching down to inspect a butterfly, for example. Wonderful things, such as the glint in your significant other's eyes when he or she smiles, or the massive heads of gorgeous lupins in full bloom. We have a tendency to forget about today. We tend to overlook minor details. "Oh, what a lovely night."

Paranoid much? We are sat in a private, candle lit room in the swankiest restaurant in the county; a string quartet playing in the corner by a little dance floor. The walls and floor is coated in a disarray of flowers and petals, joined by many scented candles. I went all out. One rule broken; I spent over the limit of £100. I couldn't care less! The rule about Bethany is now moot, so that isn't even an issue. "Virginia.. Would you like to dance?" I breathe, using my panty dropping smile to weaken her resolve.

Celeste heard the smile underneath the seriousness, the way Brett performed exhaustion as comedy. Peter drifted to the kitchenette, his movement unhurried, economical, and returned with a mug of tea, steam rising in a thin white thread that dissipated in the air between them. He offered it to Celeste without asking, without checking if she wanted it, trusting the pattern they’d established over weeks of small gestures. He set it within reach of her hand, close enough to grasp but not so close she’d knock it over if she reached for something else, the placement deliberate, considered, the way he’d begun doing: quiet care, no performance, no expectation of gratitude or acknowledgment. Celeste

Lead by these thoughts, she quickly reached for the note and opened the neatly folded piece of paper to see the words: “My world is dark without you. You’re my sunshine, doll,” It wasn’t the intricacy of the writing nor its neatness that had her heart racing but the pet name, doll. There was only one person that had ever called her that_Jamie. Before she could find the time to ponder on the coincidence of her dream, the flowers, and the strange note, her phone beeped. She glanced at it on the sofa where she’d left it to attend to the door but she only noticed the screen light up as she was too far away to read what was on the screen.

No matter how I thought about it, it was awkward. Though, that's not to say it wasn't possible. The next day, I watched the note stuck to the ornamental flowers next to the door of my building. It read, "Suppress Your Desires." I smiled. The decorators my mother had hired turned up later that day. Luckily, I just so happened to be going away on business. I begged them to work through the night. I told them it was urgent and paid them extra to do it.

That was victory. I lifted my flute, letting the crystal catch the light again, and drank deeply, the champagne fizzing like electricity against my tongue. Let them eat. Let them drink. Let them whisper. None of it mattered. Tonight, I was still Mrs. Bryan Adams. “Small weddings are best,” I announced at one point, swirling the pale gold liquid in my glass so that the bubbles rose like tiny jewels to the surface. I lifted my chin, letting the light catch on the diamond comb still pinned in my hair. “Grand ones are nothing but performance. Empty noise for empty people. But this…” I let my eyes sweep across the modest room, pausing deliberately on the flickering candles and the polished mahoga

She was such a beautiful woman, how come she had never been in a relationship. "Ah, I see. Sorry, it's just, I'm awful at making small talks" Damian admitted. It was a curse of a genius. When people are too intelligent, logically, they would find it difficult to make small talks with other people, things like "how are you?" or "what did you do last night?" don't really spark their interest. "Don't worry, I also hate small talks" she smiled as she steeped her fingers together. Just then the waiter came back and poured the wine for them, she thanked him and took a sip of her own wine.

~Miss Pretty Thinking about that time when her late best friend Mackie advised her to do something to catch Thyago's attention, that was the time she dared to befriend him and did a lot of crazy things just so he can spend time with her. She suddenly remembered all the things she have done just for him to notice her. The funny and happy memories and at the same time the pain and bitter emotions affiliated with it. She then read the reply under the notes on what he felt about it. Dearest Miss Pretty: