Listen carefully.
It's the sound of me crying in despair! Sob.
Yes gentle reader, The French Intellectual was GORGEOUS, interesting, funny, intelligent, thoughtful, ecologically aware ... and just not that into me. Damn. Oh, and did I mention that he was also tall? Oh o.k, he doesn't have a car or drink alcohol, but nobody is perfect.
It all seemed to go so well too, and I was already smitten by his incredible power with words. He wrote the most AMAZING things when we were in cyber-space, really funny scenarios, his humour second to none. He should be script-writing or something, the way he wrote had me hooked. I had decided he could even be ugly and I would look past it. Imagine how I felt when he walked in looking like someone pretending to be a nerd, but not being able to hide his full lips and fine bone structure.
It's like Clark Kent wearing glasses. Silly. Everyone can see you're Superman.
To make matters worse (for me), he had thoughtfully done this amazing thing. I had joked that I wanted him to make me feel the ages 14, 22, 33 and 40 throughout the evening. He made up four beautifully labelled bags for each age, and each one contained a different kind of sweet correlating to that age. I know! No one has ever done anything like that for me before. It was like something in a movie.
There will be some good reason why TFI didn't sweep me into his arms . He might have impotence problems or be really scared of the fact that I don't listen to classical music. I might have resented always picking him up in my car, and feeling judged every time I had a nice glass of pinos gris.
Whatever the case, ma petit fromage, you were certainly a fine creature and I will miss not ever knowing you. Sobbing ceases. Cut to the way the light is pouring through the window and the cat sits looking all bunchy and furry on the bed.
Fuck my hands are cold. Winter has arrived in NZ. Beware of French Intellectuals, they will not keep you warm, but boy do they know how to write.
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