mean, cops are okay.”
“ Mon Dieu .” This was the second time she’d said this at me.
Her brand of frankness was starting to rub me the wrong way.
“For your information, they know how to have a good time,” I said, feeling the need to defend them, well, Marie anyway. “Plus they’re the good guys. You know, fighting the good fight?”
Her face had hardened. Those eyes pierced the silence. “ Impossible .” She uttered this with no small amount of disdain. “Tell me something, do you shit kittens, too?”
My mouth popped open. Now. Hang on. That was mean.
“Let me tell you something, before you get upset.” She flashed on my hands, clutching my purse. I was already upset, for the record. “The police are not ze good guys.” Her French accent grew thicker. “Zhey are ze worst and do you know why?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “Because zhey can abuse you, lie to you, steal from you and even kill you if zhey want, with total immunity.”
She sniffed in a bunch of righteous air. I stared at her with a mix of awe and abhorrence. She’d made a point, I guess, one I’d never even thought about. But, it was theoretical and did not apply to most cops. I could never imagine Marie abusing her power.
“Let’s go. I am thirsty,” she said suddenly, taking the keys out of the ignition. I didn’t budge. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be exposed to any more of her viewpoints on the world. Plus, I was worried about whether going out with a customer of the store had been a bad idea. She lined me up, rolled her eyes and muttered, the word unbelievable in French.
That got my dander up.
“I think I’ll take a pass on that drink,” I said, huffily, reaching for the door handle. I could take a cab home.
“Nonsense. You are coming with me,” she ordered.
And true enough, after she clambered out and headed to the café, dammit if I didn’t follow her in. I needed a drink. Plus, I reasoned with myself, she was the first local I’d met around my age. Beggars could not be choosers. The “shitting kittens” comments aside, I could hear my mother back in Austin say, “Everyone is entitled to their opinion.” Besides, aspects of Chloé reminded me of Jess, who I missed more than good ol’ American potato chips.
We positioned ourselves at the bar, and she ordered us both wine. She winked at the bartender, who winked back. I was guessing Chloé was not a virgin. And why did my thoughts go there? Because—I was twenty-three years old and never been skinned! It had become a source of deep, unadulterated doubt for me in Europe where everyone was just so sophisticated . (I mentally scratched scrapbooking off my list of hobbies to share on my date with Louis.)
The extreme contrast between Chloé and me just drove home how artless I truly felt. I thought of the women I had seen Louis with in photos, and another bubble of anxiety ballooned in my gut. How could I hold his interest over dinner?
No. I checked myself. He was attracted to me. And I had lots of terrific qualities to be grateful for, or so I insisted to myself, sipping the wine. Maybe this Chloé—I wanted to describe her as debonair but wasn’t sure it applied to a woman—would rub off on me.
“Are you with anyone?” she turned and asked bald-faced. I wondered if she could read minds, too.
“Oh, well, um, not really.” She looked at me like I had just landed from outer space. I cleared my throat and dug deep for grace. “It’s complicated. A secret. But yes, hopefully.”
She smiled a wicked, wonderfully conspiratorial smile. “Married, oui ?”
My appalled face only made her laugh. I was reminded of how Louis had seemed to like getting a rise out of me. Why was I so fun to tease?
“I would never date a married man. Ever.”
She watched me, taking a sip of her wine. “You don’t even know me,” she shrugged. “So why not tell me his name?” she goaded. “His first name? Your secret is safe with me,” she leaned in with her
“ Mon Dieu .” This was the second time she’d said this at me.
Her brand of frankness was starting to rub me the wrong way.
“For your information, they know how to have a good time,” I said, feeling the need to defend them, well, Marie anyway. “Plus they’re the good guys. You know, fighting the good fight?”
Her face had hardened. Those eyes pierced the silence. “ Impossible .” She uttered this with no small amount of disdain. “Tell me something, do you shit kittens, too?”
My mouth popped open. Now. Hang on. That was mean.
“Let me tell you something, before you get upset.” She flashed on my hands, clutching my purse. I was already upset, for the record. “The police are not ze good guys.” Her French accent grew thicker. “Zhey are ze worst and do you know why?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “Because zhey can abuse you, lie to you, steal from you and even kill you if zhey want, with total immunity.”
She sniffed in a bunch of righteous air. I stared at her with a mix of awe and abhorrence. She’d made a point, I guess, one I’d never even thought about. But, it was theoretical and did not apply to most cops. I could never imagine Marie abusing her power.
“Let’s go. I am thirsty,” she said suddenly, taking the keys out of the ignition. I didn’t budge. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be exposed to any more of her viewpoints on the world. Plus, I was worried about whether going out with a customer of the store had been a bad idea. She lined me up, rolled her eyes and muttered, the word unbelievable in French.
That got my dander up.
“I think I’ll take a pass on that drink,” I said, huffily, reaching for the door handle. I could take a cab home.
“Nonsense. You are coming with me,” she ordered.
And true enough, after she clambered out and headed to the café, dammit if I didn’t follow her in. I needed a drink. Plus, I reasoned with myself, she was the first local I’d met around my age. Beggars could not be choosers. The “shitting kittens” comments aside, I could hear my mother back in Austin say, “Everyone is entitled to their opinion.” Besides, aspects of Chloé reminded me of Jess, who I missed more than good ol’ American potato chips.
We positioned ourselves at the bar, and she ordered us both wine. She winked at the bartender, who winked back. I was guessing Chloé was not a virgin. And why did my thoughts go there? Because—I was twenty-three years old and never been skinned! It had become a source of deep, unadulterated doubt for me in Europe where everyone was just so sophisticated . (I mentally scratched scrapbooking off my list of hobbies to share on my date with Louis.)
The extreme contrast between Chloé and me just drove home how artless I truly felt. I thought of the women I had seen Louis with in photos, and another bubble of anxiety ballooned in my gut. How could I hold his interest over dinner?
No. I checked myself. He was attracted to me. And I had lots of terrific qualities to be grateful for, or so I insisted to myself, sipping the wine. Maybe this Chloé—I wanted to describe her as debonair but wasn’t sure it applied to a woman—would rub off on me.
“Are you with anyone?” she turned and asked bald-faced. I wondered if she could read minds, too.
“Oh, well, um, not really.” She looked at me like I had just landed from outer space. I cleared my throat and dug deep for grace. “It’s complicated. A secret. But yes, hopefully.”
She smiled a wicked, wonderfully conspiratorial smile. “Married, oui ?”
My appalled face only made her laugh. I was reminded of how Louis had seemed to like getting a rise out of me. Why was I so fun to tease?
“I would never date a married man. Ever.”
She watched me, taking a sip of her wine. “You don’t even know me,” she shrugged. “So why not tell me his name?” she goaded. “His first name? Your secret is safe with me,” she leaned in with her
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