Saturday, October 21, 2006
Egos. Alive and well in France.
The spot where he kissed me itched for days. A phantom pain from where my untainted skin used to lie. He caught me off guard as I slipped from the 1 to the 12 line at Concorde station. He grabbed my hand from out of nowhere, nearly swallowing it whole as he planted his sloppy kiss. I thought for a moment that he might be a professional thief who was trying to suck the wedding ring from my finger. Instead he was a skeezy old Frenchman whose tweed sports coat, and the dandruff on it, were both older than me. His prime, if ever he had one, past 40 years ago. But that didn’t stop him from believing that he was debonair as hell.
I muttered in French as best I could as I struggled to free what was left of my hand, but the bastard spoke English. Even worse, he was taking the same metro line as me. He asked if I was English or American. He preferred Americans because the U.S. is "farther away" (probably because it’s more complicated to extradite dirty perverts 6,000 miles opposed to shooting them through the Chunnel).
After narrowing down my city to San Francisco, he asked if I was a homosexual. Not finding the humor in his comment, I told him that I wasn’t, but my husband might be. Him being French it’s sometimes hard to tell. (I figured one stupid stereotype deserved another). It was lost on the old man and he continued. He was only interested in one thing: making me his mistress.
As the metro winded down the tracks, I could barely contain my gag reflex. His breath smelled of spoiled milk and a constellation of blackheads formed the Big Dipper on the tip of his nose. He yanked on his Donald Trump eyebrows and rolled the course salt-and-pepper hairs between his stubby fingers. He hammered me with flirtations until I finally gave in. What can I say, I’ve always wanted a Kelly bag.