I walk out onto the street. My friend and I are texting back and forth. She wants to know:
“Any other interesting matches?”
“No. Match is a bastion of the unemployed.”
I give up texting and call her. I storm up the street, venting my frustrations loudly, and then laughing. I bring her up to date on my first ex – who just brought a child support modification against me that resulted in him having to pay more money. I bring her up to speed on The Departed, and how having him out of my life feels like storm clouds have passed over. We chat and chuckle. Then she has to go.
Where are you? I ask.
At a bar mitzvah, she says. Thanks for entertaining me. This is the most entertainment I’ve had all day.
At least you’re well fed, I say.
Speaking of which, I’m hungry. I wander up the street to the little French cafe where I was supposed to meet Mr. Unusual, take a seat at the bar, and order a baguette and a cup of coffee.
It tastes just like Paris.
The last time I was in Paris, I was with The Departed, and his two children, and their resentment, and in my longing for happiness, all I really wanted to do was eat a baguette in peace.
And here I am, doing just that, not 15 minutes from my home in current traffic conditions.
Not only that, this place has wicked good pear jam.
I leave, and call my friends – the ones I’m supposed to meet in the afternoon. It’s 9:15, and I have some serious time to kill while The Child takes her exam, and I didn’t bring any entertainment because I didn’t think I needed to.
He did what? they say. Where are you? We’re on our way.
This morning isn’t turning out so badly after all.