Paris Adieu #featured #Wattys2017

Chapter 10 - Mad Summer Night

Our conversation progressed easily. Arnaud was articulate, inquisitive, and one hundred per cent on fire. When he emphasized a point, his broad forehead bulged out as if synapses firing inside his brain were trying to punch their way through to the outside. I couldn't decide which I was more attracted to – his brain or the way he looked when he was using it.

Our drinks finished, we strolled out onto Rue de la Roquette, Bastille's most fashionable thoroughfare, taking in the sights and smells of early evening. Young, stylish Parisians and less-well-dressed tourists filled its sidewalks, a heady excitement in the air at the onset of a summer weekend.

We turned down another side street. In a minute, we came upon a small restaurant, the name Agadir hand painted over its entryway. Exotic smells drifted from its interior along with a slim, olive-skinned man with a full head of dark, wiry hair. He ushered us inside and out a side door to a table in the garden. Amber light streamed from lanterns, bathing the diners in a golden glow.

Arnaud sat next to me, instead of across the table. It was a very European thing to do. We'd be able to breathe each other in as we took each other's measure.

He ordered a carafe of sangria. Then, we sat back and surveyed the passersby. Be here now, he'd suggested. It was exactly the reason I'd left New York for Paris. Being here now never seemed quite enough in New York. In Paris, it did.

The waiter came to take our order. We both chose lamb tagine, a thick Moroccan stew served with couscous. While we waited, we sipped sangria. I was tempted to take out the pieces of orange, lime, and lemon with my fingers and suck on them, but my New England side counseled against it. Best to behave in a lady-like fashion on a first date.

Our dishes arrived in ceramic casserole pots with conical tops, also known as tagines. Inside, thick chunks of lamb nestled in a fragrant sauce side by side with apricots, golden raisins and almonds.

I dug into the stew. Soon, I was scraping the bottom of my casserole dish.

"I like the way you eat," Arnaud commented.

"What do you mean?" I tried not to blush. I had always been a good eater, especially when stimulated by both good food and company. Nothing ever put me off food.

"I mean you're not afraid to eat," he explained.

"It was delicious. Why would I be afraid to eat?"

"Some women just pick at lettuce leaves when they eat," Arnaud replied. "Or have one bite of something and that's it."

"I try doing that when I'm dieting, but it never works," I confessed.

No matter how much I wanted to give him the impression I was a larger, blonder version of Audrey Hepburn, it was as if I'd taken truth serum that evening. Authentic statements about my less-than-perfect self kept tumbling out of my mouth. Now, he knew I was both unsure of myself as a performer and possessed an appetite like a horse.

"Don't diet. You don't need to," he said with conviction.

Music to my ears. This man would light a candle to the Venus de Milo, not a stick-figure Giacometti. With deep contentment, I took a long sip of sangria. Then, I fished an orange slice out of my glass and sucked on it.

Despite my newfound pride in my hearty appetite, when the waiter came to ask about dessert, I declined, as did Arnaud. A minute later, the bill arrived, and I reached for my bag.

"My invitation," Arnaud grabbed my arm, pulling it back to the table.

"Thank you." I said, remembering my grandmother's advice to let a man pay if I wanted him to pursue me. He wouldn't be able to chase me if I met him halfway, would he? And I didn't want him to think he'd been relegated to buddy status. Au contraire.