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My arms were filled with bread, the first time I saw her, which was somehow appropriate.

A restaurant is a hot and sweaty place, both literally and figuratively and with a staff turnover as high as anywhere there were always new faces to see.

I first noticed her hair. Not suprising as I tower a foot over her.

"You must be Matt"

How does she know my name? She looked up at me, dangerously pretty. I started to unload the hot loaves of sourdough and confirm my name. I'm already smitten.
She tells me her uncle used to be my boss at a bakery I worked in. This is how she knows my name.
I'm a little suprised at this point. Why am I so in awe of this girl? Yes, she's pretty, but so are dozens of girls who I manage to talk to without blushing and mumbling like a 14 year old girl meeting the Backstreet Boys. I feel defensive. She tells me her name.

"Clementine"

She pronounces it to rhyme with teen, not Tyne.
I reply honestly,

"That's a beautiful name"

(How eloquent)

It's French

My flatmate floors me by inviting her for dinner at our house, and over noodles, sea bass (liberated from work) and tarte tatin (my trump card, I must like her), I discover that she...

I haven't seen this girl since 1999, but she is my girl on the Jersey ferry. This is the girl I named my company after.

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