French Kiss

‘The girl in the boulangerie is quite nice,’ Gordon muttered.

I’m surprised he’d noticed. He was out of his house, round the shops and back again before you could say, ‘Bonjour’. What had induced him, a solitary bachelor, to move abroad and to our village in the first place? He couldn’t speak a word of the language, and those stacks of coins by his window weren’t the hoard of a miserly Scotsman. They were the change from his shopping he didn’t know what to do with.

‘Funny you should say that,’ I replied. ‘She was asking about you.’

Gordon turned an incandescent red beneath his Caledonian whiskers. He swilled the wine round his glass. He put it to his nose. ‘I fear,’ he stuttered in his confusion, ‘it is still a little t-too young.’

Speaking of age, girl was pushing it. She’d been around, and handling those baguettes, still warm from the oven, probably turned her on.

‘Shall I give her your love?’ I asked. ‘And kisses?’