The smell of bread baking always made him think of that small, cobbled street in France. He’d wake up early for his daily exercise, the sun touching the horizon with the barest of caresses, and birds just stirring for the day, sleepily chirping. He loved to run, and though he’d get his morning jog on the way to and from town, he slowed down every time he came to that particular road. Hearty scents of various baked goods would waft through the doors thrown open by the bakers, and the aroma would curl around his sense of smell like a fat, lazy cat seeking attention. He could never resist buying a small loaf to enjoy at home with breakfast once he finished his workout; the crusty bread cracking with the most satisfying sound to reveal the softest crumb inside one could ever wish for.
Now he looked out the window of the tall skyscraper, no longer calling that rustic town, small cottage, and rolling green hillside his home. Every once in a while, though, he’d drive into the city very early, find his favorite market street, and walk it as he once did in that faraway country. It wasn’t exactly the same of course, because nothing could compare to the fragrance of freshly baked bread mixing with clean, country air, but it still brought a ghost of a smile to his lips. It also brought the memory of dark eyes, dark hair, and a laugh that bubbled like champagne. He missed the bread, and the town, and the cottage, yes, but he missed her, too.