Anni threw on her Zara trapeze coat and hurried out into the street. A sleepy mist veiled the morning, the quiet only broken by a bicycle over the cobble stones. With cold fingers she lit a Gauloise and walked the few blocks to her favourite bakery. The warm aroma of freshly baked bread greeted her inside; wholemeal, walnut and sourdough loaves nestled behind the counter. Baguette in hand, Anni returned down the tranquil street and up the four flights of stairs to her apartment. She scraped around the kitchen cupboards, finding a half empty jar of Bonne Maman strawberry jam and some leftover orange juice. She put the kettle on, one teaspoon of Russian Caravan in the plunger. It was just another morning, just another breakfast in Tours.
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