Arcadian Infusions: A Flavour Just For You
The little cafe was about two hours out of town. It wasn't the easiest place to get to, especially without a car; it took Crys three transfers to get to the nearest bus stop, and from there she still had to walk a good twenty minutes along dirt roads. She'd brought a book, though, and it was a beautiful day, so she didn't really mind the journey. There was only one problem. Crys had been sitting at the ornate, wrought-iron table for what must have been half an hour now and Tarah was nowhere in sight. While she waited, she was trying to keep boredom at bay by watching the other customers on the terrace. The colourful sun dresses and elaborate hats fit in pretty well with the marigolds and morning glories that surrounded the little patio. An elegant, middle-aged women was staring at her from her table under a nearby trellis whenever she wasn't staring back. This wasn't the first person to do that, either. Crys's outfit may have been comfortably inconspicuous in the city, but out here her dark jacket and acid-washed jeans made her feel like graffiti in Monet's gardens.
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