Cream Puff Dream

Anne (Dominguez) and I arrived in the small town of Najera in the early afternoon. Siesta. In need of a bathroom, we searched the streets, walking past the typical sight of closed shutters and empty bars. Finally, we came across a small bakery, still open.
A variety of pastries laid beneath a glass counter. Butter-soaked croissants, jelly-filled cookies, and pastries I’d never seen before. One caught my eye. A tall pile of cream spiraled up from a bed of marange cookie. I wondered what it tasted like and expressed my admiration to Anne. In an attempt to resist my ever-existing sweet tooth, I left my wallet in my pocket.
Out of pure kindness, and maybe in the hopes of a snacking partner, Anne ignored my refusal and bought me the pastry and its mountain of cream. The woman behind the counter took our pastries from the display case to place them on a decorative paper, wrap them, and set them in a white box tied with a ribbon on top.
Now, in search of an albergue, we decided to call around to find a couple of beds. We approached two park benches that looked across a small cobblestone square. One bench stood in the shade of a building where I set down the pastry box. We beside sat in the sunny bench. An short, plump older woman sat beside us. Her all-black outfit matched her dark hair and her olive skin soaked up the afternoon sun.
After calling all albergues, the two of us headed to the grassy banks of the river where we laid down for a nap (I was beginning to enjoy the daily siesta). Enjoying the calming sound of the flowing river, we gazed up at the white puffy clouds. I closed my eyes.
Anne turned to me to dreamily ask, “what happened to the desserts?”
“What?” I asked, sleepily dazed.
“The pastries!” Anne responded, more urgency in her voice now. Hunger crept into my mind as I realized what I had done…
“The park bench! I left them on the shady bench. I’ll run over.” I held a brisk walk, powering through my gimp, walking along the river back towards the park bench. As I rounded the corner of the cobblestone square, I could make out the short figure of the Spanish woman in the distance, but now pastry box.
As I walked closer, I could now see the Spanish woman was holding something in her hand. Looking around, she began to lift her hand to her mouth and now I could see. A tall swirl of cream and spongy cake rose from her hand and into her mouth. My cream puff! It was her first bite. I couldn’t help but burst into laughter. What timing!
I couldn’t face her alone, so I ran back to Anne to tell her of our loss. Back at the river, I somberly chuckled the story back to Anne. We decided to walk back to tell her about our mistake and laugh with her, but by the time we walked back she was gone, along with our pastries. I wondered what that creampuff pastry would have tasted like.