“If you cut out gluten and dairy, you could cure it naturally.”
“Your state of mind is so powerful. It’s how you choose to approach it. Think positive, and you’ll feel positive.”
Maybe if I preemptively hit my head, I could avoid the entire situation.
Far less of a headache for me in the long run.
Sliding my phone back into my purse, I claim the Lost Soul’s vacated seat while a sharp spasm grips my lower left abdominal. The crowd’s thinned significantly, courtesy of Our Lady of Paris.
Unfortunately, my bread also departed.
Seeking an alternative distraction, my eyes fall on a guy reading a small, leather-bound book across the way. He’s handsome, right on the edge of thirty, well-dressed, with a light brown complexion, sharp cheekbones, and a short haircut.
A nervous energy gently hums through me. My body doesn’t bother with the internal fireworks anymore; it’s far too much of a production for something that will never pan out. But men who read are a particular weakness of mine.
“Definitely going to grab some super cheap wine,” Red Beret muses to her friend, “and pre-game at my apartment if you want to come over. I’m thinking we go out at like ten or eleven and then stay out until the Métro opens again.”
My chronic fatigue is tired for her.
M. Biblio-Hunk rolls his eyes behind his literary shield. I snort at his mutual annoyance, and this catches his attention as he picks his gaze up from his page to meet mine.
My mind pilots through my mother’s guide for catching a man’s eye. I’ve never successfully employed her lessons in my life, but there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.
Use whatever you can to draw his attention to your lips.
A faint smile tugs the corners of his mouth as his eyes drop to the depression cheese resting in my right hand.
Ah. Perfect.I raise the nozzle for a hit and attempt to charm him with my feminine wiles.
Thisishow you flirt, right?
It’s been so long since I’ve tried—maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe I should slowly dust the cobwebs off first.
But he’s reading Proust.
What the heck. Shoot your shot. A semi-solid canary yellow cheese spirals out of the can with added pressure. Cobwebs be damned, I’ve got this.
Until I don’t, and my finger—in an extreme act of desperation—presses down too firmly on the nozzle. My can of joy and wonder betrays me, and cheese suddenly explodes beyond the limits of my mouth.
With what little dignity I have left, I choke down a swallow—a particularly wasted skill of mine—and wipe, tucking an errant tendril of my strawberry-blonde hair behind my ear and feigning like some part was intended.
Apparently you can’t shake the cobwebs off a flirting game that never existed.
“Oh my god,” Red Beret shrieks across the cab.
“Luxembourg. Luxembourg.”
Snapping his book closed, M. Biblio-Hunk clears his throat and stands. His eyes avoid my general area as the car slows to a halt.
I’m free Monday through Wednesday.Or you can catch me at The Quays on the weekend where I’m a pretty mediocre bartender.
Red Beret side-eyes me, lining up behind Monsieur Didn’t-Take-the-Cheese. “Brittany, you’ll never guess what just happened. Paris is so weird.”
The doors slide open, and they both exit.
A soft, “No, she definitely wasn’t flourishing,” wafts its way back into the car, along with the pungent stench of urine.
Right. Well, to be fair, I judged her too.
