A Nice Fling is Hard to Find

Wednesday, July 18, 12:30 A.M.

I have good news and I have bad news.

First the good.

We were in the restaurant of the chalet, about to have steak frites. We were sitting at a long rectangular table. I sat next to Becca at one end. Abby was sitting at the other. The seat next to her was empty. The seat next to me was empty. And that’s when Pierre walked in.

Who did he chose? Me. He chose me. He sat down right next to me. Hah! Go me! And to think that last night I was ready to write off the entire trip. Yet here I am back in the game, even without my guava.

“Hi Pierre,” I said. “How are you?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, smiling. “I don’t understand you. Can you ask me how I am in French?” That is what Pierre is supposed to do, after all – encourage us to speak French.

I picked up my fork, and twirled it in my fingers like a baton. “I don’t know how to speak French.”

He leaned in closer to me. I could smell the cologne on his neck. “Repeat after me. Bonjour, Pierre. Comment ça va?”

“Bonjour Pierre,” I parroted. “Comment ça va?”

“Bien. Et toi?” he said.

“Bien. Et toi?” I repeated.

“No, now you have to answer me. I said, ‘Good and you?’ And now you must tell me how you are.”

“I’m good. Thank you, Pierre. I’m starving and looking forward to dinner. What do you recommend I order? How do I say that?”

“Ça va bien,” he said, sounding extra accenty and sexy. He was rolling his R’s and everything. “Merci, Pierre. J’ai faim, et je veux manger. Queseque tu recommandes manger?” Then he added with a laugh, “Comment je dis cela?”  “That was way too much to repeat,” I said.

He gave me a big smile. “You must try.”

So he spent the rest of le diner teaching me le French. Did you know that plate is plat? That fork is fourchette? That glass is verre? How smart am I? I can now name my entire place setting in French and my name in Russian.      

If any of my actual teachers had been this sexy, I’d be multi-lingual.

Anyway, there I was enjoying my educational dinner when Tommy and Penny with a Y had to come and annoy the heck out of me. First of all, they walked into dinner TOGETHER, and his cheeks were all flushed and she was all giggling, and then he held out her chair for her. Puke. But that’s not what really bugged me. It’s when I saw it.

Her lips.

They were glossy. They were orangey. They’d been . . . guava-fied. Oh, yes. I am 99.9999% sure that Penny with a Y stole my Grandma’s guava. Not that I can accuse her. Yet.

I spent the rest of dinner trying not to stare.

First she steals Tommy, and then she steals my lip gloss? Did she take my camera, too?