I control my own peace. I control my—Oh, to hell with the ceasefire. I can’t allow this harsh slap in the collective French face to occur without consequence.
“What in Sam’s name are you doing?” I grit out.
He pauses mid-dig. “I’m eating lunch?”
“You’re eating a sandwich... with a fork!”
“Oh, yeah. I thought I ordered the salad, but the cashier gave me this, and I didn’t try to fix it.” He shrugs like this is a totally valid reason.
My brain whirs like a cartoon scribble trying to formulate a coherent thought, but all that’s circulating there is “You’re eating . . . a sandwich . . . with a fork.”
“I don’t eat carbs?” Pink rises on the tips of his ears. If he didn’t want to be attacked over this, he picked the wrong damn bench.
“Oh my god.” I groan, scrubbing my hands over my face. “I didn’t think it was humanly possible to be more annoyed with you.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to be talking.”
“That was before you committed French heresy. I literally cannot even with you.”
He puts his fork down and sighs. “I’m sure you really can even.”
“Nope. Literally impossible.”
“You’re overreacting—it’s just bread.”
“Just bread?Just. Bread?” The words roll off my tongue with significant friction. “Is the Eiffel Towerjusta structure? Is Notre Damejusta church? No! This isn’tjustbread. This is French bread in Paris! Seriously, this is the most offensive thing you’ve ever done. Worse than the time you cut my hair—”
“I was seven.”
“Or chopped the head off Samantha.”
“Who the hell’s Samantha?”
“My American Girl doll.”
“Ah. Eleven. And I built a working guillotine. Can you blame me?”
“Yes! I can! Do you know how expensive those dolls are? Nana bought it for me right before her diagnosis—”
“I get it.” He puts a hand up to halt my response. “I was a little shit.”
“You were a big one, too,” I mumble.
“Wow, okay.” He tilts his head back and laughs. “If I take a bite of the damn bread, will you stop whatever new game this is?”
“It would certainly help the situation, yes.”
The veins on his arms protrude. With a narrowed intensity on my face, he raises the sandwich slowly to his mouth and takes a bite of the whole thing, bread and all.
I huff. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” he grunts back.
A miniature soccer ball rolls to a stop at my feet. I nudge it back to a girl waiting expectantly with a shy smile a few feet off. She picks it up and runs away, curls gathered in a big pink bow cascading down her back, her ruffled skirt bouncing at her knees, white tights peeking out underneath. Impeccably dressed children are a direct shot to the ovaries for me.
They’re also the only kind of children Paris produces.
All I’m trying to say is certain things might be more challenging for you, so you really shouldn’t waste time sitting idly by.
