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Coincidentally, December twenty-third also happens to be Eugena’s birthday. This time, she didn’t ask for an Apple watch, an obscenely expensive perfume, or a Hemsworth brother—side note: I do not condone human trafficking in any way or form and turned her down on the spot. She simply asked that I would let her do her research and set me up with a date, because the fortune teller was, as she put it, “quite mental, but surprisingly eloquent”.
Reluctantly, I agreed.
I knew nothing would come of it. I’m leaving Paris in two weeks, when my lease finishes and the Paris branch of my company, Horace at Bamfield Holdings, is officially on its feet. I cannot wait to move back to my Knightsbridge flat. I miss the Indian food down the block, my running route, and even the doorman, Joe.
At any rate, Eugie ended up torn between two lasses she found on a dating site for young, attractive professionals. I took one for the team and agreed to meet them both.
An unsung saint?—Yes, I guess you could call me that.
Needless to say, both dates were complete disasters.
The French model was a fantastic bore. The type we should recruit to torture terrorists with during difficult investigations: “Let me tell you a bit more about my collection of shoes”. “Honestly, darling, unless they are ten-inch heels and the only thing you are wearing in the bedroom, I am entirely uninterested”.
The Scottish geologist, while interesting, was bizarre. She explained to me in detail why the Loch Ness Monster exists, and as soon as she realized that I was not going to donate to her GoFundMe in her quest to find the monster, she buggered off.
Ironically enough, I did find a person of interest in that little corner café. A quirky, albeit slightly unhinged, American waitress who looked and talked like she was recently purged from a ’90s romantic comedy. Think Jennifer Aniston’s comic timing paired with Julia Roberts’ megawatt smile.
I’m only slightly embarrassed to admit that I’ve had a long-standing love for both actresses, particularly Aniston circa Friends era. Add to that Eugie’s eerily specific reference to a café terrace and Pretty Woman—the latter of which I took great offense to at the time—and I found myself studying the waitress rather than paying attention to either of my dates.
Even the suspicious stain on her shirt—the shape of a penis—and the dog pee that adorned her foot didn’t dim her shine. She radiated like a lighthouse. Warm, soft, and blissfully familiar for a stranger. Every time she spoke, it felt like I missed her laughter, her words, her thoughts, which made me suspect I suffered from a slight concussion. Why else would I miss someone I’d never previously met?
Until today I’d always found the idea of kismet to be highly ridiculous. People don’t fall hopelessly in love with someone they’ve only exchanged a handful of sentences with—especially considering I’ve been on a date with not one, but two other women. But now I’m not so sure, because the moment our gazes met it felt very much like the world had narrowed down to just her. A rare jewel amidst the mundane. I can’t explain it in a way that sounds even remotely sane, but I felt an overwhelming compulsion to k
now her.
I patiently waited for the Scottish lass to leave so I could ask for Reggie’s number, but then I received a message saying that the British prime minister had quit and the market crashed. I had to dash back to the office to make sure my clients’ portfolios didn’t go down the shitters with it.
Now here I am four hours later, back in Le Petit Cafe, elbowing my way through the afternoon crowd of exhausted office folk, jaded Tinder dates, and chain-smoking aspiring poets. I find the first available person who works here and tug at the hem of her apron impatiently. She swivels in her UGG boots—not the checked Vans I longed for—her face heart-shaped, her blonde ponytail swinging from side to side.
Not the same bewitching strawberry-light-brown hair I wanted to roll between my fingers.
Her lips are not as pillowy, wide, and full, and her eyes aren’t a brilliant shade of light sapphire.
“Stingy British Dude!” she greets in an Aussie accent. “What brings you here twice in one day? Forgot your coupons?”
I run a hand through my hair, suddenly agitated with how badly I long to see a complete stranger.
“The American girl. Reggie? Is she still here?”
The Aussie waitress tsks and twists one corner of her mouth, clucking her tongue.
“She got out ten minutes ago. Our shift is over. I’m just waiting for my food.”
Bullocks. I contemplate asking for Reggie’s work schedule, before realizing how terribly creepy that sounds. Perhaps coming by tomorrow would be less awkward.
I decide that whatever I choose to do, I need to take care of the tip first. Leaving her three euros short was bad form—I did the math in my head and knew I hadn’t covered the bill even without seeing it. Shoving my hand into my front pocket, I produce my wallet and pluck out a twenty euro bill, handing it to the Aussie girl.
“What’s this?”
“Just the tip.”
“That’s what he said,” Aussie Lass grins, pocketing the money in her black apron. “Do you always stiff your service industry professional?”
“Only when the European stock market is thrown into turmoil.”
“Touché, mate.”
There’s silence. She mulls something over, her teeth sinking into her lower lip, then juts her chin toward the park across the street. “You know, she enjoys getting intoxicated publicly while popping Lactaids and eating camembert cheese she can’t afford in the park after her shifts are over.”
