Handsome Stranger

I am inside a coffee shop, munching on a butter croissant, glancing outside of the window at the enormous Eiffel Tower.

It is Friday afternoon. I know I should not have caffeine at 2:00 p.m. but I can never stop myself from devouring the fantastic café au laits they have here in Paris. I always get too many crumbs all over my clothes—so American.

I do not fit in here, not really. I don't think I ever totally will, with my loud zebra-print pants and my black leather jackets, along with my platform boots. That's okay though. I've always liked to leave an impression, for better or for worse.

A young man is making his way towards me now. He is quite handsome—I notice immediately, my cheeks flushing.

As he approaches, I fidget a bit, fussing with my necklace: a tiny Eiffel tower. No one would guess it by my extreme clothing choices and decidedly American attitude and manners (or lack thereof) but my grandmother was born here. My mother then met an American man and moved to New York City. In any case, I love the place; I'm not particularly bothered about whether it loves me back or not.

The man moves closer. I wonder if we have met before. He seems incredibly unfamiliar, yet he sits down beside me as if we are long lost friends or, even worse, long lost lovers.

If only...

I remind myself I do not know this handsome stranger and I am a single woman alone in a foreign country. I ought to be careful, what with the rumors of kidnappings circulating.

"Have we met before?" I ask, trying to sound as polite as possible given the situation.

"I'm afraid not," He responds, "Let me introduce myself. My name is Francois."

"Francois who?"

My mother always told me to get a man's first and last name before I sleep with him and yes, my head is firmly in the gutter at this point.

"Francois Borgois."

"What a lovely name. I'm Emma Ganton."

"Emma Ganton. So American," He smirked.

"Are you making fun of me?"

With a disarming smile, he replied jovially that he was.

"What brings you to my table today?"

He shrugged.

"I was just hoping for a bit of conversation. That's all."

"Oh. I see. Do you usually pop up uninvited?"

He shrugged again and smirked, "Most women will have me."

"Is that so?"

He nodded.

"Can I get you a coffee?"

"Certainly. A café au lait please."

He nodded, then ordered when the barista came around.

He looked at me, then at my laptop, and politely asked what I was working on.

I thought about lying to Francois: I could tell him I was a dignified journalist, or perhaps a historian. Maybe an author researching my latest non-fiction foray into the woes of social media and how it impacts depression at a societal level. Anything except the truth: I was a single aspiring romance novelist struggling to pay the rent. I was sick and tired of the word 'aspiring' and yet it most certainly captured the truth. I earned just enough to get by each month and not a cent more.

He eyed me mischievously.

"Out with it, Emma!"

"I...I am...um, well, I'm a romance novelist. An aspiring one, technically, though I make ends meet. Barely. I mean, I just want you to know it's not like I'm in a great place financially or anything, but I'm getting by."

His eyes twinkled.

"That's honest. Good for you, following the dream! I'm a romance novelist myself."

"Are you really?"

"Yes, and I just got rid of the 'aspiring' term last year when I earned enough to pay my rent for twelve months in royalties."

I smiled despite myself.

"Congratulations! Maybe you can help me? I hate to ask, but, I mean, I'm really struggling, though it could be worse of course. I mean, I do get by."

He waved his hand as if this was nothing and smiled.

"Of course, Emma. What about you come by my place tomorrow night?"

"I hate to be a stickler like this but, um, my mother says to always meet strangers in public places the first time around—the first three times around, really."

I was blabbering on again...Francois had this effect on me.

"Of course. How about right here tomorrow morning? 9:00 a.m.?"

"It's a date," I said without thinking.

"I mean...yes. That sounds good. I'm looking forward to our professional meeting."

He giggled, "I suppose that means I can't kiss you then. What a shame!"

"You French men are such flirts," I muttered, nearly inaudibly, as I saw his face flush. I was, admittedly, undressing him in my mind.

"I'm afraid I have to get going."

"Absolutely. Lovely to meet you, Francois. I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you then."

"Oh, I almost forgot. You'll need my number."

He gave me his cell and encouraged me to text him later that evening. I did the moment I left the coffee shop.

Tomorrow morning would be a thrill. I just hope Francois is a good man. He seems to be, yet then again...all of them do at first. My own love life has been wrought with dysfunction, which is why I prefer to keep dreaming about a brighter day with a better partner who is actually there for me. I suppose I've contributed my fair share of misery to each and every partnership I've been a part of (there have honestly been to many) and yet here I am, pining for a Frenchman. I'd only ever been with Englishmen and Americans before. I wouldn't want to be prejudiced...I have a bit of a sharp tongue and a rather cutting sense of humor, but there must be a reason Frenchmen have a such a reputation as romantics? I guess I will find out tomorrow.

Professional meeting, Emma...I remind myself, knowing in my heart of hearts it is anything but.