{ 6 }
Date 3: French Men
His name is Philippe. Right? How cute is that. We meet for a glass of wine at a trendy little boutique bar downtown. When I get there, he’s already sitting down with a glass of wine in front of him. I only know it’s him because he gestures me over when he sees me hovering at the door. His photograph is at least a decade out of date.
I walk over. Put out my hand. He doesn’t rise. Gives me a limp shake and then I sit down.
“Ze Cotes du Rhone iz tolerable,” he says. For a second I have no idea what he’s talking about. Then I see him nod at his wine glass. Oh, right.
“Fine,” I say. And when a perky waitress comes by for the order, I tell her I’ll have what he’s having. He’ll have what he’s having too. In fact, make it a bottle.
I have to be honest. His name is the only thing that’s cute about Philippe. His English is barely understandable and I’m pretty sure the only reason he didn’t stand up when he greeted me is because he’s so short. Even sitting down I tower over him. The smell of strong tobacco, Gitaines maybe, wafts my way.
I was expecting Olivier Martinez and I got Pepe le Pew.
“I thought you would be blonder,” he says, looking at my hair.
Yeah, well, I thought you’d be taller. And bilingual.
I chose him because on his profile he said he was a Sommelier. But after he’s drunk his fourth glass of wine in twenty minutes, I decide Sommelier was a euphemism for alcoholic.
Luckily, I’m going to the movie with Josh tonight.
I tell Pepe that I have to go. We get the bill. He suggests we split it.
{ ♥ ♥ ♥ }
Josh is waiting outside the theater when I get there. He’s already got the tickets so we go right in.
After the movie, which we both agree was not nearly as good as the book, we go for a walk. It was raining earlier, but now the night is clear. It’s kind of pleasant if you’re bundled up. Winter in the Pacific Northwest is mostly wet, with the odd week or so of snow that sends everybody into panic mode.
“So, how’s project 12 dates going?” he asks me.
As I step around a puddle, I tell him about the disappearing doctor and the drunk, smelly Frenchman. It seems funny, now.
Josh laughs at all the right places and seems sincerely sympathetic that I got stood up by Dr911.
“You know,” I say, as we get to my place, “I’ve never had a man who was a friend before. I mean, I had the big group thing in high school, but hanging out with you is different. It’s nice.”
He turns to me and in the light from the moon his face seems mysterious somehow. “Is that what you want to be, Lucy? Friends?”
In that moment, while we stand in the moonlight, I feel a strange pull toward him. There’s one of those long moments. I think he’s about to kiss me. I’m not sure if I want him to. Then suddenly, he says, “Good night.”
And turns and walks away.