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One of the really nice things about my neighborhood is that there is a small school, an École, they call it, just around the corner. They do the usual adult education classes like English and French for foreigners. I'd like to learn French but every time I try I get this sneering attitude and I've decided it's just better to go ahead and be an American, speaking English. At least that way they'll be snotty to me in French and I won't necessarily even understand what they're saying.
The school also has classes about other things, and after a little while I decided it would be worth looking into. Maybe something would spark my interest, give me some idea of the direction for my li
fe. While living in France was expensive, I did have quite a lot of money left. I knew it wouldn't last forever, but I wasn't feeling any great urgency to start working at the local Burger King or anything.
Art appreciation classes have been going really well. The instructor shows us slides, talking in this bored, above-it-all sort of voice as she describes each painting in her impenetrable accent. According to her, French painting is the best. Apparently those Italians and Dutch are a bunch of has-beens who shall not be named.
After class, Daniel finally gets up the courage to talk to me as we’re leaving. He's tall and good-looking, with a youthful shock of hair that just covers his coffee-brown eyes. I’ve seen him glancing at me out of the corner of my eye, but he always dashes off without saying anything at all.
He happens to be in the doorway at the same time that I'm attempting to leave, slinging my satchel strap over my shoulder. His eyes meet mine shyly from under that hair and he purses his lips slightly. I find that expression particularly charming, as though he is just lightly kissing the air.
He speaks to me in a sexy, boyish accent. “You speak French?”
“Not a bit,” I tell him proudly.
His eyes crinkle when he smiles at me and I suddenly realize he's the first person I have made eye contact with in weeks. It's nice, seeing someone. Really looking at them. He asked me if I will have dinner with him and I tell him no, but I agree to a cocktail at dinner time.
I am being coy, how about that? I like the feeling of being in control. I like the subtle twitch of disappointment when I say no at first, and he has to come up with an alternate plan. It makes me feel powerful.
I gave him the address of the little restaurant down the block from my house. Not too close so he can't stalk me or anything, but not so far that I need to take a taxi. I could probably have three or four glasses of wine and still manage to stumble home.
He's already there when I arrive, camped out at a small, tablecloth-covered table at the corner of the gated enclosure. His smile is wide and brilliant when he sees me, his cheeks lined with long dimples that bracket his perfect white teeth.
This is fun, I tell myself. Fun, remember that? It's a thing people have people. I should try it.
There's already a glass of wine at my seat when I sit down. I smile at his thoughtfulness, thanking him as I tip the rim of my glass against his. That sound the glasses make is like the starting gun of a race. The game is on. Flirtation, go!
He is charming and self-effacing and has this lovely, sexy chuckle that I find myself eager to hear again every time it dies away. It makes me think that his chest must be broad and strong, just right for leaning my head on.
Oh my, what am I saying? The wine must already be going to my head.
He leans forward, cupping his square chin on the palm of his hand and tapping at that sculpted cheekbone with his fingertip.
“So tell me more about you,” he invites me. “I love your accent. I love the way you talk.”
“My accent?” I repeat. “I don't have a… Oh, I suppose I do. I never thought about it.”
“Yes, I like the sound of it. It's so refreshing to hear you talk.”
“Oh, you have heard me talk before, haven't you? Madame Brevelle has called on me at least four times. Remember all those questions about Corot? I felt like she was daring me not to know who he was!”
“Ah yes, the French are very possessive of our reputation as artists,” he agrees readily. “No, but what I mean is… you know.”
I take another sip of my wine. At first it had seemed a little rough, a little astringent, but now the sweetness is really coming through. I like the way it makes my blood feel thick as honey.
“What do I know? About Corot?”
He tips his head to the side and wrinkles his nose slightly. “You know. There is no sound. On your… videos? Your, um, broadcast? Stream! That's the word!”
He smiles broadly, congratulating himself for remembering the word stream, apparently.
My mouth has gone suddenly dry.
I set the glass down in front of me slowly, turning it in place and pressing my palms flat to the tablecloth.
He knows. He recognized me.
“Oh, you know… I really should be going,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
