Page 3 of Marriage (Red, White &) Blues

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m in Paris.”

“Paris. Kentucky?”

“Nope.”

“Texas?”

“Wrong again.”

“You don’t mean France,” she said. Oh, I sure as heck did.

“That’s exactly where I am. I’m headed for my hostel right now.”

“Gloria…” she sounded sad. “When will you be home?”

“Don’t know. I quit my job. I’m single. I’m free, and I have a whole continent to navigate.”

“Are you with anyone? That’s not safe.”

“Please, I fade into the background. No one knew I was making plans. No one knew I left. Nothing will happen to me.”

“Gloria—”

“Listen, we just pulled up in front of the hostel. I have to go. But I’ll try to call when I get the chance.”

“Okay,” she said. “Be careful.”

Be careful?No—not this time. Not that I planned to take ridiculous chances, but I wanted this one time in my life to forget about being the responsible one. To chuck responsibility out the window and live life forme. I paid the taxi driver and went inside. White plaster walls, and thick, exposed beams on the ceiling greeted visitors. Some beautiful dried lavender in vases sat on small wooden tables scattered about the space. The place looked clean and the woman at the check-in smiled. Although simple, I loved everything about this hostel.

I’d reserved a private room because I adventured in baby steps. Dorm rooms filled with loud, partying strangers—best to leave that for the eighteen-year-olds. Even still, a one-person room only cost me about $45 a night. Much cheaper than a hotel.

After checking in, I crashed on my bed. I’d heard about jet lag but never experienced it before. Flying from Detroit to Paris made me feel a hundred years old. The rest turned out to be exactly what the doctor would’ve ordered. Post my nice long nap, I showered, then dressed for the day in a cute, fitted pair of cropped jeans with folded cuffs; a pretty, sagey-green, flowy, blouse; and a pair of comfortable walking sandals. A little fresh makeup and my hair in a messy braid later, I slung my crossbody bag with my money and passport over my shoulders heading out to see what kind of trouble I could find.

As soon as I hit the pavement outside, my tummy started to grumble. Food. I needed food. Stat.

Although I’d intended to try out one of their cafés, I walked past an outdoor market and was drawn in by the smell of fresh bread. That had to be up there as one of the world’s greatest smells, along with coffee, vanilla, oranges and brownies. Any one of those heady scents gave cause to abruptly change your plans. I bought a crusty baguette, then I passed a cheese vendor and left with a beautiful, creamy brie and a Bleu de Saint-Jean, a kind of hard blue cheese. Well, if I bought the bread and cheese,then I had to get meat. I settled on a Jambon de Bayonne, which happened to be a very thinly sliced ham, much like prosciutto.

The next thing I knew, I had a netted grocery bag with olives, grapes, pears, and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. The vendor even had these cute, little plastic wine glasses and a keychain corkscrew. The wine vendor’s little boy saw my bag of goodies and talked me into buying a few of his homemade poppers “to scare off the birds.”

Could the birds be that bad? Well, if they were, then I was prepared. If not, then I helped a cute, cherub-faced lad earn some cash. I could live with that.

The boy must’ve known what I planned to do. I mean, what did one do with such a bounty? If your immediate answer wasn’t picnic, then we probably couldn’t be friends. I wandered through the city passing tourists packing the bridges and benches in the grassy areas until I found a park where I could sit and eat my lunch while looking at the beautiful Seine. Oh, and I made sure to snap plenty of pictures to document my first day.

Before tearing into my food, I uncorked the wine to let it breathe while the sun shone down on my face, warming me. I still couldn’t believe I was here.

A person passed behind me and dropped down about ten feet away. A man—no, that wasn’t nearly the right descriptor. There were times in everyone’s life when they realized they stood (or in my case,sat) in the presence of greatness. And this man had greatness written all over him in every sexy way imaginable. Let me just say, staring at him, my imagination took me in some wildly creative directions. Was it possible for me to bend that way? —stop Gloria, you’ll just embarrass yourself.

I shut that line of thinking right down because if all I got from this man was a few minutes of “holy shitballs I can’t hold this position” then so be it. And where did he buy his cologne, because hesmelled amazing? Seriously, he reminded me of afield of wildflowers after a rainstorm. Of course, the longer I watched him unpacking his lunch, the more he affirmed my original statement of greatness. The way the sinewy muscles in his broad shoulders bunched under his faded black T-shirt simply from pulling items out of a bag got me a little hot and bothered. Aside from his shoulders and a fine,fineass not remotely safe from my ogling even covered by his dark blue jeans, he had an otherwise slim physique reminding me of a swimmer’s body. His short, dark-brown hair lookedalmostblack and had these cute spiky-feathery pieces blowing around in the soft breeze. He wore a pair of aviator sunglasses that gave him an air of cool while laying out his picnic spread.

And that brought me back to reality. A gull swooped down, flying off with his loaf of bread before he could shoo it away. That gave other birds the courage to shoot their shots. Biting my lip to stifle a laugh, I threw one of the poppers and it cracked in the air, scaring off the birds. I jumped, not expecting it to be that loud. The poor man turned to me, slumping his shoulders, looking so defeated that I couldn’t hold back the laughter now if I tried. I didn’t do it to be mean. It was just… I felt his pain. I’d had those days. He needed a friend right about now, so I stood, brushing off my bottom, and picked up my bag and my wine, walking over to him.

“I have a loaf of bread I can share,” I said in perfect French, holding the bag up for him to see so he didn’t think I was some sort of weirdo.

“Je ne parle pas bien français?” he said as a question and it was the cutest thing. He wasnota native French speaker.

“English?” I asked.

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