the road to where

II • tête à tête

You would think that things have changed for the better (and for the more talkative too), since the mysterious, super handsome (French?)man came here to me and stood in front of the mirror hip to hip with me... and I'm afraid to tell you that things sure have changed. But for the worst. Which means that not a single word has been spoken between us so far. Which means that as of right now, instead of just talking to me already, he's slicking his hair back into the mirror, wiggling his bum in a 'seductive ' manner, winking at his own reflection like he's quite the egomaniac ... with his aviator sunglasses covering his eyes. Which are, unironically much, the thing I like the most about him, besides his hysterically funny, devilishly mysterious ways. And his way of never taking himself too seriously. Aka, something that a good looking man as him would excel at. If he only wanted to. But he doesn't want to, I can't tell him to stop whatever he's doing because it's lowkey cracking me up... so, let him be a weirdo for my entertainment. And let me nurture hope that he is the proof that not all French people have dead fucking fish smell under their nose. He's making my whole fucking morning, he's hooking me up with some amazing, hilarious, free of charge entertainment, he's ridiculing himself for the sake of making me laugh... and although it's all super sweet of him, I still wish he could bring things to the next level, make them make sense, and just fricking talk to me. As I'm sure that we'd find something to talk about, if we only tried to... and we'd probably die laughing together because, at this point, it's pretty clear that we're both humorous people who are dying to talk to the other one. And why not, to have a coffee together, before we have to board our respective flights. The only 'hurdle' here is that we probably don't have any languages in common, besides the one he speaks as a native, and that I don't want to speak because it makes me sound like a drunken, tone deaf, obnoxious and annoying duck. Still, it doesn't mean that I couldn't change my mind on the French language, if this guy showed me how it sounds, coming from his mouth. It doesn't mean I wouldn't make the effort to speak French to him (and for him), if it turns out it is the only mean I can deploy to get to talk to him. Even if, in quality of a smartass, kinda resentful, kinda bitter Italian person, I know that he'd have some not very nice, oh so judgmental words for my French, if I was to casually speak it to him ... and I know I'd probably snap at him for that. Because, unlike the French like him, us poorer neighbours who aren't into eating snails are much more into making the fucking effort. The very few times that we care.

I should just be myself, I should just do the Italian, make the effort, come across cheerful and adventurous through it, and try and get words out of his mouth already... but I can't. I've got a bug. And unlike many other Italians (we are worldwide famous for being quite the jump shippers, aren't we?), I'm painfully loyal to my own word. Even when it comes to stupid (I mean, trivial) things like talking to some stranger in some airport: I have solemnly promised myself that I won't break the ice here and do both of us a favour with that. Although I'm aching to talk to him like I've never ached to talk to anyone else before in my life... and although the standard me wouldn't be afraid to make the first move with a man. I have solemnly sworn that I'll wait for him to eventually do that, as if he had the physical guts to start all this pantomime with me, chasing me all over the goddamned place and hiding behind glasses/shelves... he's gotta be the one to pick it up from the giggles and the bum wiggles and turn it into a verbal exchange. If he's feeling like it, of course. And if this doesn't turn out to be just a stupid, pricky French-like prank. Because the fact that I'm fascinated by him doesn't automatically mean that he might feel the same way about me. On the contrary, the odds in that regard are very low. Lower than the price of that new Mugler perfume I'm eyeballing from here. Of course, when I ain't looking at the handsome stranger fixing his sunglasses on his sharp, pointy nose, and confidently posing in front of the mirror like he's some established, eyewear kind of model. Which I wouldn't be surprised if he was, 'cause he's French, aka a little bit of a fashion victim, a little bit of a buffoon... and mad fucking handsome too. So handsome I could easily imagine finding a picture of him wearing designer sunglasses on an issue of Vogue (France?).