I am not exactly sure how or when life turned into a Woody Allen film but somehow here we are.
I am all hurt and rejected and disillusioned with men as a whole and who stumbles into my evening’s narrative but a gorgeous Frenchman with ridiculous brown eyes and a far off gaze too painful to identify.
“No! You are not coming home with me.”
“But this is so beautiful, I do not want it to end.” Even with the smoldering and the broken english, there is no part of me that is non-American enough to resist an eye roll at this. And he is just so damn earnest. And handsome. And tempting.
“Sorry buddy.” I say with the cocky half-smirk I default to when an interaction with a man becomes far too real and I waver between feeling incredibly hot and just plain ridiculous. “This week has been a bit much and as grand of an idea as it seems, I would feel guilty in the morning.”
“What do you have to feel guilty about?” He had a point. I did get dumped on my birthday. I would be within my rights to engage in some serious revenge sex but that just didn’t feel right.
Around this time, I deflected with a joke, which is what I do when I am nervous or uncomfortable. It was something accusatory about him harboring a dozen bastard children scattered throughout his various wine-selling ports of call.
“Listen, you are adorable and French and Adorable and LEAVING - my four favorite characteristics in a man - but this just isn’t going to happen.” I tried to get him to focus on my directions toward the subway with little avail. He instead focused on my neck.
His scruff was still prickly, having yet to grow out into the quarter inch shag that consistently weakens my knees and sends my spiraling into nostalgic recollections of being young and stupid and ridiculously in love with a former band geek who hadn’t yet figured out that he was now hot. I like them best when they are still clueless - but I digress.
This was an accidental evening, tucked in shadows, strolling through alleyways, beckoned into dark doorways to listen to ridiculously romantic soliloquies made ever more nauseating by the accent.
My best-friend and I often talk about being women with whom romance is utterly wasted. We have no idea what to do with these types of affections and as such have a tendency to run head first into the arms of assholes without a romantic bone in their bodies or for that matter an ounce of empathy, sensitivity or emotional availability. We know how to pick them.
And as debonair as this frenchman seemed, I knew too much to fall for simple overtures. He was the makings of good writing or terrible life choices. But with 48 hours left in the country, I had yet to settle on one or the other.