1
Mélina:
My name is Mélina Dupré, and I am twenty-seven years old. I live on the third floor of a building that creaks like an old shipwreck stranded in the middle of a neighbourhood that never quite decided whether it wanted to be cosy, a little bohemian, or just plain run-down. Probably a mix of all three. The walls are thin, the radiators temperamental, the staircase groans at every step as though begging to be put out of its misery… but it is home. My refuge, my cocoon, my tiny kingdom of thirty-one square metres.
The flat is modest: a main room with old honey-coloured floorboards that have kept a record of every fall, every piece of furniture moved, every impromptu dance during evenings that were a little too solitary. A kitchenette that always seems to be sulking, a mouse-grey sofa bed that serves as a bed, a desk, and sometimes a table. And one window — just one — that looks out onto the main street.
Some would find my daily life dull or ordinary, but it suits me. I have no complaints: it is simple, it is stable, and above all it fits me perfectly. I have no outsized ambitions, no blazing ego, no dreams of fame or extraordinary adventures. I am content to live well, and I think that is already quite something.
Every morning, around 6:30, I hear the bakery across the street roll up its metal shutter with a clatter I would recognise anywhere. Then comes the smell of warm bread, followed by that of croissants still puffed with overly generous butter. The wind also carries the aroma of freshly ground coffee from the little roaster two shops further along. I could almost wake up without an alarm, guided solely by the scent of the street.
My life is this neighbourhood: a mix of slightly worn facades, shops run by people who smile because they love what they do, not because it pays particularly well. We are far from the chic city centre, but here you find something I prefer a thousand times over: an unpretentious simplicity.
And where do I fit in all of this? I am a waitress at the Café des Marronniers, an establishment that has “chestnut trees” in its name despite there not being a single one within three kilometres. But the atmosphere is warm, almost like family, with varnished wooden tables, mismatched chairs each with their own personality, and potted plants that nobody quite knows who tends to, yet which somehow go on thriving miraculously.
I have worked there for three years. It is the kind of place where regulars have their own mug, their own table, and sometimes even their own cushion. I know their orders by heart:
Monsieur Lefèvre, his long black with no sugar but a splash of milk.Lucette, who always has a Viennese hot chocolate “but not too sweet, mind you.”The secondary school students who arrive in a group for a hot chocolate before class, claiming they are late because of the bus.
And then there is Gérard, our boss. In his fifties, impeccable moustache, shirt always tucked in but never ironed, a big heart behind a gruff exterior. With Gérard, you always know where you stand: he grumbles, but he loves his staff like his own children. The first time he hired me, he simply said: — Can you carry three plates in one hand? I tried. I dropped one. He replied: — Perfect, you’re hired. Anyone who gets it right first time is too cocky.
That is Gérard.
I spend my days smiling, serving, and sometimes listening to customers’ confidences. I have no need for a brilliant career or a dazzling salary. I love the idea of being useful. Of being part of the scenery. Of making someone’s day just a little bit better with a well-made coffee or an off-the-cuff joke.
That morning, like every other, my alarm goes off at 6:15. I roll over, groan a little, then get up, tripping over my own pair of shoes abandoned in a corner. I run a hand through my hair, which always does whatever it likes before I’ve had a coffee. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror — well, the mirror stuck crookedly against the wall — and try to come to terms with my morning face. The dark circles are there, faithful as ever, but I quite like my face even in that state: soft, unsophisticated, just… ordinary.
I make myself a cup of tea, swallow a slightly too-dry biscuit, then grab my beige coat and head down the three flights of stairs, trying not to wake the entire building. Mission impossible. The staircase creaks so loudly it sounds like it is protesting with every step.
Downstairs, the street smells of warm bread and cold morning air. I breathe in deeply. This is my favourite moment.
Walking towards the café, I pass the same faces:
The postman, always singing off-key.The law student drinking coffee from a reusable cup while walking quickly.The old gentleman feeding the pigeons despite the sign, written in enormous letters, right in front of him, forbidding it.
The Café des Marronniers comes into view at the corner of the street, with its slightly worn red awning and its gold lettering, a little tarnished. When I push open the door, a wave of warmth and familiar smells wraps around me: coffee, brioche, polished wood. Gérard is already there, cradling a cup between his hands.
— Ah, Mélina, right on time. You look awake today. — “I’m pretending, Gérard.” — Good, keep it up. It’s what I’ve been doing for twenty years.
The day begins.
I put on my apron, move the chairs, lay the table mats, and warm up the espresso machine. At 7:15, the first customers come in. By 8:00, it is the usual rush.
I love watching people. Their little quirks. Their small rituals. The way they warm their hands around a cup. The way they talk to each other, or on the contrary avoid each other.
There is soft music playing in the background — usually jazz, sometimes acoustic covers. The conversations merge into a reassuring hum. We bump into each other but we also laugh. We grumble but we always come back.
At noon, warm light filters through the windows, giving the place an almost cinematic quality. I sometimes think that if someone wanted to make a film about the quiet little lives that matter just as much as the grand ones, the Café des Marronniers would be the perfect setting.
And I, Mélina Dupré, am right there in the middle of it. Not a heroine. Not a celebrity. Just a waitress who knows people by their first name and pipes little foam hearts onto cappuccinos when she has a moment.
But I would not trade my life for any other.
As I tuck the napkins away behind the counter, I glance at the clock on the wall: it is barely nine o’clock… and yet I feel as though I have already lived half a day. It is always like this on a Friday. A kind of electric charge floating in the air, a blend of impatience and anticipatory relief. The weekend is coming, and everyone is more agitated, more talkative, more demanding too.
The Café des Marronniers on Fridays is a hive. And I am a bee trying not to be crushed under the weight.
— Mélina, can you take two hot chocolates to table seven? — “Yes, on my way!” — And then take the orders at table nine, they’ve been waiting.
I exhale, but I smile. You always smile. Otherwise you implode.
The front door opens so often that the little bell above it becomes a sort of pulse, a frantic metronome beating to the relentless comings and goings. The smell of coffee mingles with that of reheated croissants, lunchtime quiches, the felt of still-damp coats, and the perfumes of the female customers.
Cups clink, chairs scrape, conversations overlap. It sounds almost like a chaotic symphony, but a perfectly familiar one.
— You holding up, Méli? Gérard calls out as he passes behind me.
I nearly knock over the spoon I was about to set down.
— “Like a Friday.” — Ah, Fridays. He sighs as though talking about an unpredictable old friend. — I’m calling in backup for the lunchtime rush. Jules is available. — “Thank goodness.” — And Sarah comes in at 3. Saturday and Sunday I’ve put her on full days. We’re going to need her.
I nod. The weekend is always madness. The brunches. The families. The grandmothers who ask for “a coffee like they used to make.” The couples who argue in hushed voices. The tourists who ask if we have oat milk cappuccinos — from Iceland.
My day off is Monday. And on Mondays I often wake up feeling as though I’ve just survived a medieval battle.
Around 10:00, I start to feel that familiar tension at the back of my neck. That little knot, right there, warning me that the day is going to be extremely long. Not bad, just endless. One of those days where every minute stretches into three.
I stretch discreetly while delivering coffees to a table of retired men earnestly putting the world to rights.
— Miss, do you have lemon tart today? — “Of course! I’ll bring you a slice right away.” — With plenty of meringue, mind. Last time there wasn’t enough. — “I’ll have a word with the tart and ask it to make an effort, I promise.”
They laugh. So do I. Laughter is contagious, even when your internal battery is flat.
By 10:30, the room is full. Not a single free table. We even had to set up two small tables on the terrace to cope.
The cappuccinos keep coming. So do the special requests. The “sorry, could you make that a bit hotter?“s.
And I am practically flying between the tables.
When I make it back to the counter to steal a minute’s rest, Gérard gives me a look that is half amused, half apologetic.
— You know, Mélina… — “Yes?” — You deserve a medal. Or a bonus. Or a massage. Maybe all three. — “I’ll take the bonus and the massage.” — We’ll see about the bonus. Ask Jules about the massage.
I laugh. I have never seen Jules massage anyone. He already struggles to hold a tray straight when he is stressed.
At 11:00, he arrives in a whirlwind, his apron already tied on crookedly.
— I’m here! Sorry for being late, the bus— — I don’t care about the bus, Gérard cuts him off. Go and help Mélina before she evaporates.
Jules raises his hands like a soldier being given a vital mission.
— Roger that! Off to save the ship!
I stop myself from bursting out laughing, but it does me good all the same. With two of us, everything feels a little lighter.
I can feel the tiredness of the week in my legs, my arms, my temples. I can also sense a kind of impatience from the customers — not irritation exactly, more a diffuse tension, as though everyone wants to fast-forward time and already be at the weekend.
And I try to hold the course.
At exactly noon, a queue begins to form outside the door. I do not even have time to say hello to those coming in: orders, hot dishes, and bills all pile on at once.
The noise rises again. Voices go up a notch. The café becomes a constant hum.
I can feel my heart beating faster — not from stress but from exertion — as though my body has switched to autopilot. I have been tired before, of course, but today… I can feel that this Friday is going to leave a mark. As though the day keeps starting over and over again.
Around 2:00, when the lunchtime rush finally begins to ease, I press both hands flat against the counter, as if needing to feel something solid beneath me. The room slowly empties. The relative quiet feels almost strange after all the chaos.
— “It feels like we’ve just survived a storm.” — Fridays are like that, says Gérard, polishing a glass. — A regular storm. But you’re good at this, you hold on.
I smile, a little moved in spite of myself. I love this job. I love this place. I love this rhythm, even when it exhausts me.
This is my life. And it suits me.
I have no idea that it is about to change completely. But that… is not for today. Today I am simply Mélina. A waitress. Tired, but happy.
And ready to face the rest of the day.
Even if it promises to be a very, very long one.
