The Harem on the Hill (Part LXXXV) (Patreon)

"Care for a refill?"

"Please."

You slide your empty coffee cup to the edge of the table, where Ella, Cornucupia's plump young barista, carefully fills it from an opaque black carafe.

"How are the pastries here?" you ask.

You know how the pastries are.  They're delicious.  Tina went on and on about them.

"Delicious," Ella answers with a big dimpled smile.  The Latina lass is probably fifty pounds heavier than she was when she was hired as Tina's teenage replacement.  Back then, she was too young and too thin to consider as anything other than a means for caffeine, but today she has your attention.  Especially that of your member, which is standing at it.

"I'll try one.  Which is your favorite?"

"Easy.  The cheese Danish."  Ella places her free hand on her bulging belly.  You interpret the gesture as 'I should know,' but you could be wrong.   Maybe it's to hide the evidence or stifle a rumble.

"Sold."   You remove your money clip from your pocket and peel off two twenties.   "Could I also get a half-dozen to go?"

Ella nods and takes your twenties.  You watch the fleshy undulations beneath her brown apron as she heads to the kitchen.  They look like the thrashings of a wild animal trapped in a potato sack.

After a few minutes, Ella returns with a plated pastry, a white to-go sack with the Cornucupia logo, and your change.

"Thank you."  You slide a $10 bill to the edge of the table.  "Care to join me?"

Ella turns to Paul, the shop's owner, who sits reading the newspaper a few tables away.  It's the only other occupied table in the cafe.

"Sure, take a break," he says, glancing around the empty dining room.  "Just don't neglect our other customers."

Ella smiles uncertainly, as if she expected, or even hoped, Paul would say 'no.'  Nevertheless, she pulls out the chair opposite you.

"I'd prefer if I didn't eat alone."

The plump barista pockets your $10.  "I'll be right back."

A moment later, she returns with a plated apple tart.

"No cheese Danish?"   You help yourself to a forkful once she sits.  It is, indeed, delicious.

"I gave you the last one."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"It's OK.  Everything is good here."  Ella takes a bite of the tart.  "And, as you can probably tell, I'm not that picky."

"What do you mean?"

Ella dabs her mouth with a napkin, then leans over the table, providing a tantalizing glimpse of the burgeoning developments beneath her drab smock.  "Let's just say, this job hasn't been good for my bottom line," she whispers.

You want to make a crack about Paul not paying enough, but with him just a few tables away you instead say, "I see."

"It's ok."  Ella takes another bite.  "It was bound to happen.  If you knew my family you'd know I was a ticking timebomb."

"As long as you don't explode."  The jestful intent of your statement is belied by thoughts of Bernadette.

"No," she says, setting her fork down on her plate.  "I'm actually trying to cut back a little."  Then she laughs.  "As you can tell."

"Life is too short not to enjoy its pleasures."

Ella laughs again, jiggling all over.  "You DEFINITELY don't know my family.  They're Roman Catholic and believe gluttony to be a cardinal sin."  Nevertheless, she picks her fork back up and takes another bite.

The ring of the cowbell above Cornupupia's door interrupts your conversation and Ella's sinful snack.  Since Paul shows no indication of getting up to meet the young couple that enters, Ella hurriedly rises.

"Sorry," she says, wiping her mouth with her napkin and throwing it over her half-eaten tart.  "Duty calls."

Paul looks up from his paper as Ella winds through the dining room's tables and chairs like a tubby slalom skier.  Eventually, she reaches the counter where she greets the couple with a winded "good morning."

"Sweet girl," he says, returning his attention to the sports section.  "But she was better for business a couple of years ago."

As if refuting his claim, the cowbell jingles again and another couple enters, filing behind the first.  Ella gives you a "What can I do?" shrug.

You pull another $10 from your money clip and set it on the table, then you stand and head for the exit.  "See you, Paul."

The middle-aged man gives a perfunctory nod.  "See you."

Ella waves as the cowbell chimes your exit, but looks disappointed.  You're disappointed, too.  You'd prefer to wait for her.  Unfortunately, you have things to do and people to feed.

There was a reason you visited town, and it wasn't to ogle blimping baristas.  

Where to?