story 3.5

Tatilla slinked off the table, gracefully easing his way down. Tigers choose their time.

He nonchalantly strolled on all fours to the plains of his domesticated savannah. Flat land, two paces by five paces. As if it were sufficient exercise for a clambering lounging stealth lord of the jungle.

He camouflaged himself behind the couch, all the better to launch a surprise pounce on the intruder. The spread of blue-white-yellow patterned cloth that was the couch protector made a great disguise, providing a sheltered and shadowed effect.

The clattering and chattering at the front door announced imminent presence. Rustling paper sounded promises of mail. Scent of cold cinnamon enticed a different future.

In his tigerish mind he envisioned whirled scrolls of pastry bread coated with custard and cinnamon and sultanas, croissants lavishly enveloped by sliced blanched almonds, madelaines dusted with icing sugar, kouign aman with its layered caramel...

Atilla emerged, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the clear winter light shining through the windows. Mother had returned home, laden, and it was time for tea!