The job had been coerced from Elizabeth, though Cosimo didn’t know why he hadn’t gone to his sire earlier. Up until now he’d made meagre money creating weapons that weren’t perfect, slipping between guns and swords and back to guns again – he preferred them, their mechanical pieces and the way they fit together. He lacked the artistry that went along with the heat of the swords.
The idea for the job had arisen when he heard of a relic that could be bought from one of the more eccentric shops in the city. It was an expensive ********, though, and Cosimo simply lacked the funds. Although Cosimo wasn’t as proud a man as he could have been, he didn’t often like asking for help. But this, he had thought about. He could ask, but it would only be for a loan. If Elizabeth could loan him the money he would work for her for free. He would pay her back, with interest. He had it all worked out in his head.
Eventually they agreed their terms and Cosimo got himself a job at Queen of Tarts. It required that he wear a pink apron, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind at all. In fact, although he’d only been in the job a couple of nights he found his spirits truly lifted. He wasn’t just working for himself. He was working for someone he admired, and he was doing what he’d once wanted to make a career out of. Not that he wanted to be a baker, per se, but it was close enough. And who didn’t love the alluring scent of baked goods? It was an immediate balm for the soul.
Besides which, the Italian was thriving amongst the customers and found that customer service was, in fact, his forte. He was full of smiles and jokes and strutted around the shop in his pink uniform, proud to wear it. What was it they said about real men and pink? The shenanigans ensued when a rowdy guy came to buy tarts for his girl. She’d requested them, from that new place down the road.
“You’re the last thing I expected in here, man,” he’d laughed. That’s how the conversation had started – how, surely, a man in pink would lure the women. Though a man in nothing might lure them better. Truth be told, the customer was drunk. Drunk as a skunk but his good humour was infectious and one thing led to another – next thing one knew, Cosimo was out on the street dressed only in his apron, frilly as it was, his bare backside free for all to see. In his hand he held a tray with a lavish clear cake dome over the top, taste testers underneath. When he grinned the dimples were deep, flour smeared across his forehead.
The tipsy customer had laughed his way down the street, telling everyone he passed about the half-naked Italian out the front of the Tart shop. And they did, indeed, flock.
The idea for the job had arisen when he heard of a relic that could be bought from one of the more eccentric shops in the city. It was an expensive ********, though, and Cosimo simply lacked the funds. Although Cosimo wasn’t as proud a man as he could have been, he didn’t often like asking for help. But this, he had thought about. He could ask, but it would only be for a loan. If Elizabeth could loan him the money he would work for her for free. He would pay her back, with interest. He had it all worked out in his head.
Eventually they agreed their terms and Cosimo got himself a job at Queen of Tarts. It required that he wear a pink apron, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind at all. In fact, although he’d only been in the job a couple of nights he found his spirits truly lifted. He wasn’t just working for himself. He was working for someone he admired, and he was doing what he’d once wanted to make a career out of. Not that he wanted to be a baker, per se, but it was close enough. And who didn’t love the alluring scent of baked goods? It was an immediate balm for the soul.
Besides which, the Italian was thriving amongst the customers and found that customer service was, in fact, his forte. He was full of smiles and jokes and strutted around the shop in his pink uniform, proud to wear it. What was it they said about real men and pink? The shenanigans ensued when a rowdy guy came to buy tarts for his girl. She’d requested them, from that new place down the road.
“You’re the last thing I expected in here, man,” he’d laughed. That’s how the conversation had started – how, surely, a man in pink would lure the women. Though a man in nothing might lure them better. Truth be told, the customer was drunk. Drunk as a skunk but his good humour was infectious and one thing led to another – next thing one knew, Cosimo was out on the street dressed only in his apron, frilly as it was, his bare backside free for all to see. In his hand he held a tray with a lavish clear cake dome over the top, taste testers underneath. When he grinned the dimples were deep, flour smeared across his forehead.
The tipsy customer had laughed his way down the street, telling everyone he passed about the half-naked Italian out the front of the Tart shop. And they did, indeed, flock.
