Ready to go home

Ready to go home


So, I didn’t go straight back to the condo after the fabric and art purchase.

The market had already filled my arms with treasures—three spools of that perfect antique-gold thread, two hides of supple cognac calfskin, a small pouch of antique brass rivets that caught the light like tiny fallen stars—but my stomach was louder than any plan.  
I was ravenous.

The beach road curved past a row of low white buildings with striped awnings. One sign, hand-painted in curling blue letters, read Chez Lamine – Petits Plats & Bonheurs. The smell hit me before the door did: grilled fish, garlic, fresh lime, hot oil, mint, roasted peanuts. My mouth watered so hard it almost hurt.

I pushed the beaded curtain aside and stepped in.

The place was small, maybe ten tables, mismatched chairs, walls covered in faded postcards and black-and-white photos of fishing boats. A ceiling fan spun lazily. A radio in the corner played something soft and rhythmic—highlife guitar, maybe.  
No tourists.  
Just locals: an older couple sharing a plate of thiéboudienne, a young woman reading a paperback while she ate, a man in a fisherman’s cap nursing a Flag beer and scrolling his phone.

I took the table by the open window. The breeze carried salt and the sound of children playing farther down the beach.

A woman—mid-fifties, bright headwrap, warm smile lines—approached with a small chalkboard menu.

“Welcome, chérie. First time?”

I nodded, suddenly shy. “I think so.”

She laughed like I’d told a good joke.  “Everything is good. Start with the pastels—shrimp beignets. Then the yassa poulet if you’re hungry. Or just point. I’ll bring what you need.”

I pointed at half the chalkboard.

She didn’t blink. Just winked and disappeared into the kitchen.

The first plate arrived in minutes: pastels—crisp, golden shrimp fritters, steam rising, a wedge of lime on the side.  I bit in.

God.

The outside crackled. Inside—tender shrimp, onion, parsley, scotch bonnet just enough to wake my tongue without burning. The lime cut through the richness like a bell. I moaned—loud, unselfconscious—and froze when the woman at the next table glanced over with a knowing grin.

“Sorry,” I mumbled around a mouthful.

She waved it off. “Good food deserves a good sound.”

I laughed—bright, free—and kept eating.

Next came yassa poulet—chicken marinated in lemon and mustard, slow-cooked with onions until they melted into sweet silk. The rice was perfumed with bay leaf; a side of fataya (spicy beef-filled pastries) arrived unasked, “on the house,” the owner said with a wink.

I ate slowly at first—savouring.  Then faster.  
Then slower again, because I wanted it to last.

Every bite tasted more. The salt was brighter. The acid sharper.  The fat tasted richer.  
My new wolf senses turned every flavour into an event. I closed my eyes and sighed—long, obscene, happy—when the mustard in the yassa hit the back of my throat.

A little boy at the next table giggled.  
His mother shushed him fondly.

I didn’t care. I was hungry—not just for food.  
For life.  For taste.  For more.

I ordered mango sorbet to finish—tart, cold, melting on my tongue like summer itself.  
I sat back, spoon in mouth, and let the feeling wash over me.

I’m doing this alone. I’m allowed. No one is going to take this away.

I paid—ATM card worked, balance higher than I remembered (Damien? Dante? Didn’t matter)—and left a tip that made the owner’s eyes widen.

“Come back soon, golden girl,” she called after me.

I grinned over my shoulder. “I will.”

The walk back to the car was slow.  The sun is low now, the sky turning pink and tangerine.  
Sand still clinging to my feet.  Bags swinging against my thighs—thread, leather, hardware, possibility.

I felt full.  Not just my stomach.  My chest.  
My mind. My future. Maybe it's the werewolf thing.

And for the first time in years, the hunger didn’t feel like a lack. It felt like an appetite. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Damien every single detail.
I got in, Marcel—the driver—hummed an old Senegalese tune under his breath, tapping the steering wheel in time. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t pry. Just drove, content to share the ride and the breeze.

I leaned my head against the cracked vinyl seatback and let my eyes drift shut.

Exhaustion hit like a blanket—soft at first, then heavy. The market had been a whirlwind: colors, voices, smells, the electric buzz of my heightened senses still ringing in my ears. My arms ached pleasantly from carrying bags of thread, leather scraps, and tiny brass findings. My stomach was full of yassa and mango sorbet. My heart felt… full too.

I didn’t mean to fall asleep.