The morning sun, a generous wash of liquid gold, spilled over the ancient cobblestones of Place Richelme in Aix-en-Provence. It painted the pastel facades of the buildings in hues of apricot and rose, warming the sleepy square as vendors began to unfurl their awnings and arrange their wares. For Aveline, this daily ritual was a sacred ballet of order and beauty. Each bar of her artisanal lavender soap, each delicate sachet, was placed with meticulous care, catching the light just so. Her stall, a symphony of calming purples and creams, stood out like a serene island amidst the vibrant chaos of the morning market.
Aveline smoothed the crisp linen tablecloth, a faint frown creasing her brow as she watched the stall across from hers. It belonged to Bastian, the olive oil producer whose existence felt like a personal affront to her carefully constructed world. He wasn’t there yet, of course. Bastian was perpetually, infuriatingly late. But the space itself already radiated a certain… disarray. His old, dented van, painted a faded shade of forest green, was often parked at an angle that encroached upon her own precious corner, a constant thorn in her side. She sighed, a delicate puff of air that barely disturbed the morning calm.
(To herself, a low mutter) Honestly, a little spatial awareness wouldn’t hurt. It’s not a suggestion, it’s a shared market space.
Aveline adjusted a small glass jar filled with dried lavender buds, her movements precise, almost meditative. Her silver-blonde hair, usually impeccably styled, had a few rebellious wisps escaping her bun – a testament to the early start and the lingering humidity. She tucked one behind her ear, her fingers brushing against the cool silver of her small hoop earring. The air, crisp from the pre-dawn hours, was now beginning to fill with the intoxicating medley of Provence: the rich earthiness of fresh produce, the sweet perfume of baked goods, and the faint, unmistakable tang of citrus.
A loud clatter, like a barrel of olives rolling downhill, broke the market’s gentle awakening. Aveline’s shoulders tensed. She didn’t need to look to know who it was. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of an old diesel engine, followed by a wheezing cough, then silence. A beat, and then a cheerful, booming voice that carried over the murmur of the market.
Bonjour, tout le monde! Don’t worry, your fearless olive oil purveyor has arrived!
Aveline closed her eyes for a fleeting second, counting to three. When she opened them, Bastian was already in motion, a whirlwind of disheveled charm. His dark, wavy hair, perpetually on the verge of escaping its bounds, was already catching the golden light. A smudge of green, probably olive paste, graced his cheek. He wore a faded blue linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms dusted with fine dark hair. He was hauling crates, his movements less a careful arrangement and more a joyful scattering of bottles and jars.
He glanced up, his gaze sweeping over the bustling square before landing on Aveline’s stall. A wide, easy smile spread across his face, revealing a slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes. He waved, an exaggerated, almost theatrical gesture.
Bonjour, Aveline! Looking as radiant as ever this morning. Perhaps the scent of your exquisite lavender has finally started to rub off on the market’s resident grump?
Aveline’s lips pressed into a thin line. Grump? She was simply… discerning. She offered a tight, polite smile, the kind reserved for distant relatives and telemarketers.
Good morning, Bastian. And please, do try to keep your— enthusiasm —contained to your own designated space today. Your van, for instance, is currently providing an excellent shade solution for my entire soap display.
Bastian tilted his head, feigning innocence, a spark of mischief in his deep brown eyes. He ran a hand through his already unruly hair, a characteristic gesture.
Is it, now? Well, consider it a complimentary umbrella service. Good for the complexion, all that Provençal sun. And besides, your soaps glow even in the shade. It’s their inner light.
He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that, much to Aveline’s annoyance, was quite infectious. She felt a flicker of something she sternly suppressed. Annoyance, surely. Nothing more.
My soaps glow because they are handcrafted with the finest ingredients and utmost care, not because of your dubious parking choices.
He simply grinned, then turned his attention back to his own stall, whistling a jaunty, slightly off-key tune as he began to unload bottles of golden-green olive oil. The rich, peppery aroma began to waft across the narrow gap between their stalls, mingling with Aveline’s delicate lavender. It was a clash of scents, a culinary argument in the air.
Throughout the morning, their rivalry simmered. Bastian’s boisterous laughter would occasionally pierce Aveline’s serene atmosphere. His customers, drawn by his gregarious personality and the promise of a free tasting, often lingered, inadvertently blocking the view to Aveline’s more understated stall. She would occasionally catch him sneaking glances at her, a playful smirk playing on his lips, and she’d respond with a look that could curdle milk.
It was just past noon, the sun now high and unforgiving, when the incident occurred. A group of boisterous tourists, mesmerized by Bastian’s impromptu storytelling about ancient olive groves, stumbled backward, knocking over a display stand of small, decorative ceramic oil dispensers. One rolled, precariously, towards Aveline’s meticulously stacked tower of lavender soap boxes.
Aveline gasped, lunging forward, but Bastian was faster. He moved with a surprising agility for a man his size, his hand shooting out to catch the ceramic bottle just before it collided with her display. He held it up, a triumphant grin on his face.
Saved! Just in time. Wouldn’t want a full-scale lavender-oil war, would we?
He winked, and Aveline felt an unexpected blush creep up her neck. The sheer proximity, the warmth radiating from his hand as he held the bottle, the genuine, almost childlike pride in his eyes – it was disarming.
(Stiffly) Thank you. Though it wouldn’t have happened if your customers weren’t practically spilling into my space.
(Still grinning) Ah, but where’s the fun in that? A little chaos keeps us on our toes, no? Life here isn’t meant to be lived in perfectly square boxes, Aveline. It’s meant to be tasted, experienced, a little bit messy. Like my oil.
He extended the bottle towards her, a peace offering. Aveline hesitated, then took it. Her fingers brushed his, a spark of unexpected sensation passing between them. Her gaze lingered on his hand, strong and capable, dusted with the floury white of dried olive leaves.
(Softening slightly) It’s… very good oil, Bastian. I’ve heard.
(His smile widening genuinely) Heard? You’ve never tried it? Aveline, my dear, that is a travesty! Here, let me rectify that immediately.
He grabbed a small porcelain spoon and a bottle of his premium, first-press olive oil, the color of liquid emeralds. He drizzled a small amount onto the spoon, holding it out to her.
Just a taste. For market diplomacy.
Aveline found herself, against her better judgment, accepting the spoon. The oil was intensely fruity, with a peppery finish that tickled her throat. It was exquisite. Richer, more complex than anything she’d tasted before.
(Eyes widening slightly) Oh. My. That’s… quite something.
(Beaming) Voilà! I told you. It’s the sun, the soil, the passion. It’s Provence in a bottle. Just like your lavender, yes? It captures the essence.
Aveline nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression replacing her usual guarded one. She looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time without the lens of exasperation. His eyes were warm, intelligent, and held a depth she hadn’t noticed before. The smudge on his cheek, the slight disarray of his stall – it all suddenly seemed less like sloppiness and more like an authentic, lived-in joy.
The afternoon wore on, a gentle hum of conversation and commerce. The incident with the olive oil seemed to have created a tiny, almost imperceptible shift in the atmosphere between them. Their barbed comments became softer, tinged with a teasing quality.
As the shadows began to lengthen across Place Richelme, casting long, dramatic lines from the ancient plane trees, Aveline started to pack up. She neatly arranged her leftover soaps, securing them in padded boxes. Bastian, surprisingly, had already finished. He was leaning against his van, watching her, a contemplative look on his face.
You know, Aveline, for someone who appreciates order so much, you chose a rather chaotic place to settle.
She paused, straightening a stack of invoices. Her back was to him, and she felt a strange, unfamiliar warmth bloom in her chest.
Chaos has its own charm, I suppose. And it’s never dull. Though I do prefer a certain… predictable elegance.
And I prefer the unexpected twist, the wild growth, the burst of flavor. Perhaps we balance each other out. Like a good vinaigrette. Your precision, my… zest.
He chuckled, and Aveline found herself smiling, a genuine, unforced smile that reached her eyes. She turned, meeting his gaze. The setting sun caught the gold flecks in his eyes.
(A small, soft laugh escaping her lips) You think we’re a good vinaigrette, Bastian? I’m not sure I’m ready to be drizzled over your… whatever it is you’re cooking.
(Pushing himself off the van, slowly walking towards her, his voice a low rumble) Perhaps not. But maybe… maybe a small taste? After the market? There’s a little café just off the square, Le Petit Bistrot. They do a surprisingly good pastis, if you’re brave enough. Or just a coffee. My treat. As a… peace offering. And a thank you for not letting my ceramic art be destroyed.
The words hung in the air, weighted with more than just casual invitation. It was an olive branch, yes, but also a daring step into something unknown. Aveline looked around the square, now mostly empty save for a few straggling vendors. The air was cooling, carrying the fading scents of the day, with a new hint of evening jasmine beginning to unfurl. She glanced at her perfectly packed boxes, then back at Bastian. He stood there, open and expectant, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, that familiar, endearing smudge still on his cheek.
(A pause, then a slow, deliberate nod) A coffee, then. And perhaps… tell me more about the chaos of your olive groves. I’m quite certain it’s far more interesting than my precisely portioned lavender fields.
(A wide, triumphant smile spreading across his face, lighting up his whole being) Ah, Aveline. You wound me. But I accept the challenge. Come, let me show you the world beyond your lavender.
He gestured towards the narrow alley leading away from Place Richelme, towards the quieter streets of Aix. Aveline hesitated for a moment, then, with a small, private thrill, she left her last few boxes untouched, knowing they would wait. For the first time in a long time, the prospect of a little delightful disarray felt… utterly perfect.
