this is not a love story
i wrote it down anyways
At 5:30pm (ish) on a Saturday, Violette called me.
Usually when my phone rings, I don’t answer it. You can text me.
This time, I did.
“It’s my last night in new york and I think we should hangout”
I agree.
When I received this call, I was sitting in a dive bar1 with Kiddest, and we were both staring at our laptop screens. At this exact moment, I happened to be expanding on a piece I wrote a previous day surrounding dissatisfaction in my romantic life; my ‘if I can have it, I don’t care for it, but if I can’t have it, I NEED it’ complex.
A piece of that piece included the following lines:
“Despite this, there is a pretty, blonde, French, 19 year old with 4 delivered messages in my inbox, and I am ignoring her.
All the things I want, all the things I need, as soon as I know they’re available for me, that’s Good Enough.
I am ignoring a girl that 5 years ago I’d be creaming my jeans about.
A friend of mine recently said that I’d really benefit from a year of being chopped, and every day I agree More and More with him.”
Kiddest and I ran back to my house, and I got ready.
“Got ready” here really means I took off my ‘very’ slutty shirt, and put on a just ‘kind of’ slutty shirt. Teeth brushed, hair not, bed made, time to go.
Kiddest & I parted ways.
1 block later, Violette moved our time backwards, so I found Kiddest again. We walked down to the park, and Max texted me.
I had to tell him about a new stupid practice that I have dubbed “Hemmingway-ing”, so I called him. More on that later.2
We chatted about for a bit mostly about the coincidence of her calling me while I was writing about her, and also about an eerily similar situation he was just in.
Time to go.
I walked from the park to the bar, and waited outside.
In no time at all, a small blonde thing strolls over from across the street, and thank god, she is very cute.
5’6 (in heels, maybe), cute face, button nose, nice lips, long blonde hair, pretty blue eyes. She is a ball of energy and joy, and quite extroverted.
We go into the bar that I picked, and as we walk down to the basement, I reinforce that I Don’t Know Shit about this place. It’s some random sports bar, and it was halfway between our apartments. If it was full, it would be the worst place in existence. Luckily, it’s quite empty.
I order a Guiness for myself, and a what would you like? for her.
“I don’t drink actually” she responds.
A Diet Coke for the lady then.
She sits herself down at the bar, and I quickly correct that. How are we going to make out in the (not) dark corner of the bar if we aren’t sitting in a booth?
No, we’re sitting over there.
We walk over to the spot, and she takes the chair. I get reeeeeeal comfy in the booth (as I do).
We begin talking about…. I don’t know. I think the first thing top of mind is “Tell me about France” (obviously). She quickly swerves this question, and asks me about myself. I’m perplexed by the amount of times that she is able to reroute the conversation away from her, and back to me. She somehow gets me talking about my summer of 27 in 30, and now it’s locked in her mind that I’m a Dirty Dirty Whore3. Oh well.
I eventually learn very little about her.
She was born in Switzerland, and then moved to Paris. She has a dual citizenship passport, and a size 5 ring finger.
Whenever I learn that someone has an attractive citizenship that could be mine, I always (jokingly)4 quickly propose a marriage that benefits me and only me. She half accepted my proposal, but we’ll keep that one on ice for now.
I ask why she doesn’t drink, and she quiets down. I (obviously) assume that her father is an alcoholic, and she lights up.
“Yes!!! How did you know!”
It’s the only reasonable reason that a pretty 19 year old girl orders a Diet Coke but loves Diet Cocaine.
At this point, I need to go to the bathroom, and I need us to not be sitting across the table from each other. To accomplish this, I make 1 statement and 1 request.
Statement: I am going to the bathroom.
Request: When I come back, it would be ideal if you happened to be sitting in the other part of this L shaped booth next to me, as opposed to across from me.
Response: “Okay”
Response: “I think I can do that”
I go to the bathroom, come back, and what would you know, she’s could do that. Good sign.
I come back and get Very Comfy again, and the dance continues.
I learn that she went to an international school, giving way for her lack of (and kind of just weird) accent.
I learn that she speaks 4 languages.
These are : English, French, Swiss? And something Else? I don’t remember. I didn’t write it down fast enough
I learn that her mother died 13 days after she was born.
I learn that her sister is basically her mother. This makes sense.
I learn that I look “exactly like my Ex Boyfriend, it’s uncanny”
I learn that she had a stalker who was a Ukrainian, and he showed up at her house with her name tattooed on the inside of his left bicep.
I learn that she has (allegedly) been on 2 hinge dates, and I am the Third.
I learn that (allegedly) she has slept with 2 people, and I am Not to be the Third.
I learn that she has tiny little hands, and I learn that I am still not immune to doing the “compare hand sizes” Tarzan thing. I can’t help it.5
After a while, we are making out in the booth, and she is a decently good kisser.
I quite like the way she is shaped, tracing her sharp ribs with my fingertips as I gently slide my hands up her shirt.
Every time I get “too close”, she pushes away, I will not be up her shirt or down her pants today.
“We are in public!!!”
Barely, and that’s also half of the point.
I ask her why the French are always slapping each other then passionately making out.
She hits me so hard my ears ring.
She then puts her tongue in my mouth.
I have no more questions.
At this point, the server has ended table service, and brings us our check. Perfect timing.
We have nowhere to be fast, but she is anti “come meet my cat”.
She tells me that one of the issues with my approach is that I’m too good at it, and she can tell it works on everyone.
I am “too charismatic, and if I was a little clumsier, I would go home with you.”
I wish this ‘worked on everyone’ but I never correct anyone when they accuse me of that. Obviously.
Despite this, she isn’t done with me. We stroll back toward the park, and she won’t pick a bench. I pick her up, and set her down on a bench. I’m happy to learn than I can lift 45kg without breaking a sweat. After some time, she wants a bite to eat, and I’m happy to tag along.
We walk down MacDougal, and nothing strikes her fancy. Well, actually, I think she wanted a burger, but I didn’t want all that so when she body language passed at it, I kept pushing. She then said “well, what about pizza?”
I can always eat a slice of pizza
Transparently, I can always eat a slice of pizza.
More transparently, I know the pizza spot she is tugging me towards is directly underneath her airbnb.
We go to Bleeker Street Pizza and I put her in line. She waits while I go to the bathroom.
She tells me these guys always give her a free Diet Coke, so I take one from the fridge.
I later learn that she meant a fountain cup, and I’ve stolen this.
Oh well.
When She goes to fill up her fountain cup, I mindlessly flick open Hinge, and she comes back to catch me on it.
Oh well.
We go outdoors, and sit down to eat.
Her sister, Fleur, shows up unexpectedly (to me, at least).
She is very pretty, very much taller, and very much more French.
She shares similar sentiment that I look “exactly like Her Ex Boyfriend.... No, really, it’s uncanny. Even his movements.”6
I don’t disagree, but I don’t love it. Partially, I do love it, because this just means I’m exactly her type.
I learn of Fleur’s French friend that they think is a serial killer. He was supposed to fly out of JFK today, and “missed” his flight.
They are of the mind that he did it intentionally, to extend their time together.
He is “autistic”, and doing his PhD in “robotics”. He will be here soon.
Fleur leaves for a bit; me and Violette continue chatting. At a point, we are making out on the standard issue Ikea chairs that sit outside of every restaurant.
Huge fan of PDA with a person I barely know.
A group of Intern Seasoners7 walk by when we are doing this, and hit a “Fuck yeahhhh dude! Fucking get it!!! God I wish I was you!!!!!” cheer. This makes Violette blush visibly, turning her porcelain skin bright pink. This makes me giggle, and also sad for The Interns.
Throughout all of this, Violette keeps asking me “what’s next!”
I mention again that I have a really cheap bottle of white wine8, a rooftop with a pretty view, and an orange cat at my apartment not 15 minutes away.
She is still incapable of coming back to mine. Her sister will not let her.
Fleur comes back, with the aforementioned Frenchman. He is clearly not autistic, but he does have an odd vibe. I learn that “robotics” isn’t a generalization, he really is doing his PhD in robots, seemingly to make manufacturing better.
Fleur and Friend head off, after a long conversation in French that I pick up none of.
We continue to sit there awhile, because Violette can’t get the keys from her sister. Apparently, a large amount of that conversation was trying to convince her sister to give her the keys ‘so she could pack’, or to let her scamper off with me for a while longer.
“You know that if I had those keys, we’d be up there right now”
Eventually Fleur returns, with no Frenchman in tow
She says “You need to pack!” with vitriol in her voice.
I don’t think she is the world’s biggest fan of the 6 years senior man who wants to take her darling little sister to his house and take her clothes off. She understands what I’m on about. So does Violette.
Fleur heads inside, and says “I’m waiting for you up there.”
After she leaves, we stand up, and step out of the barricade that delineates Outdoor Dining from Outdoor.
She pushes me up against a wall, and we kiss some more.
She tells me that if she has her way, and she can “change my bipolar sisters mood”, she will come meet me in an hour. I tell her this is a nice thought, but overall not one rooted in reality. To your sisters credit, I am a strange man that just wants to make you moan before you leave. She is “right” to not let you come.
I kiss her once more, get scolded with a smile for “groping her in public” once more, and head on my way. I text her my full address, and a
make a decision in 30 minutes or less
In less than 30 minutes, I am soundly asleep, and no, I didn’t wake up to an “I’m outside”.
Au revoir, Violette.
is Josie’s a dive bar? i feel like it “technically” is but i also don’t think it is.
there is not more on that. “Hemmingway-ing” is when I really want to write but I don’t want to write, so I go to a local bar, drink a singular alcoholic beverage, and write until that one is gone. By that time, I’m really in the mood to both a. write more and b. have another drink. this practice really really really works and has become one of my top 87 favorite things to do.
last may i went on 27 dates in 30 days as a sort of exposure therapy, and it was very fun. no I did not sleep with 27 people in 30 days.
mostly.
i have really large hands. When I was in 9th grade, a girl called me “ET Fingers” and i still think about it all the time. every time a girl finds my hands attractive, hailee’s words sting a little bit less.
imagine this in a Way Frencher accent
white, male, working in finance. would be wearing a patagonia vest but its 90 degrees so they are just wearing yacht shorts and polo shirts.
if you remember earlier, she said she did not drink. she later told me that she will “well maybe sometimes…”