After a few seconds that seemed to last forever (but which gave me enough time to think Well shit foiled again he’s ugly and fat he has a cowlick he’s dressed like a redneck he shaved just before coming here and he cut himself twice he bites his nails he smells weird and I don’t see my bag), he opened his eyes.
He looked at me in a really strange way, as if he were taking aim at me, or secretly challenging me. Then he rubbed his eyes, pulled out an eyelash, and closed his eyes again.
For fuck’s sake, I thought. He isn’t just ugly; he’s drunk too. Or he just smoked some pot. Yeah, that’s it. He’s totally stoned, the loser.
I leaned over quietly to see if my bag was by his feet, in which case I would grab it and get the hell out of there as fast as I could, leaving him to his leafy pleasures. But no, nothing but a pair of filthy black loafers with round toes, like police shoes, and striped white gym socks.
Oh, girlie.
How have you sunk to this?
Well, I wasn’t going to stick around to watch him crash out while I counted his scratches. I turned and picked up my book, waiting for my . . . what did I call him? “Unexpected”? “Heaven-sent”? . . . date to deign to acknowledge me.
Ten minutes went by and I was still reading the same line of text.
I must be losing my mind. What was I doing there? Who had I been waiting for? Who was this guy screwing around with me?
I put down my book and picked up the flowers. I was out of there.
“Mathilde?”
Then, very distinctly:
“Mathilde . . . Edmée . . . Renée . . . Françoise?”
My ears pricked up. I quirked an eyebrow.
“Can I buy you a drink, ladies?”
A comedian. Just my luck.
Well, at least I knew he’d actually had my ID in his hands. That was something, anyway.
When I didn’t respond, he unzipped his jacket and I saw my bag against his chest. He didn’t say anything else; just put both hands flat on the table and stared at them, then lifted his chin and looked me straight in the eyes:
“Sorry; I got up really early this morning. Are you coming?”