It was the Mexican, though I didn’t yet know his nationality. All I only knew was that I was intensely drawn to this très, très sexy stranger. It could have been due to the copious amounts of wine I’d consumed or merely his powerful allure, but what exactly happened next is something of a blur . . . .
I grabbed my purse and down I followed a few friends who were tracking down a cab to go home. As luck would have it, one was approaching just then.
“I’m not going home with you guys,” I blurted out, sparking confused looks exchanged between them. As my British friend Nellie was opening her mouth to ask whom I was thus leaving with, the building’s door flung open and out stepped the Mexican. The taxi came to a stop, we got it and I gave a little wave to my perplexed pals as we drove off into the twinkling Parisian night.
“Vous allez oui?” asked our taxi driver and 15 minutes later I was in a gorgeous loft in a nearby Parisian suburb, and minutes later I was on the 2nd floor of the loft being passionately ravaged by one muy caliente Mexicano.
Oh la la! What had I gotten myself into! I have to say, I don’t often go home with guys after barely talking to them, but there was something so magnetically attractive about this one that I have to conclude that the situation was completely out of my control (or, at least, that’s what I’m allowing myself to believe)… and that’s how it remained over the next few months.
It turned out the he wasn’t just incredibly hot, he was also an architect and artist—totally the kind of guy I was into. He really seemed too good to be true… and indeed he was. He was working around the clock to finish this important art project that was opening in a few weeks. So it wasn’t like he had much time for pretty girls. We met up another time the following week, we texted often, talked on the phone, I even helped him with his project, nevertheless, I was getting mixed signals. Did he really like me? Couldn’t he make just a tiny bit of time for me? Then whenever I would think ‘Woe is definitely me! He doesn’t like me at all!!’ I would get a cute text message from him ending in icono-kisses.
My friends advised me to be patient, to wait it out until he finished his project, so I did (wellll, I didn’t quite “wait” patiently, nor all alone, but that (or they) will be revealed in future stories…). The date of his project launch finally arrived and I went to the opening party with a bunch of friends, however, I barely got to talk to the Mexican. He’d actually lost his voice, but he also had to try to “talk” to all the other people who’d come to the event. I left at the end of the evening a little heartbroken, vowing to my sympathetic friends—and myself—that I would not contact him first.
Sure enough, I got a sweet text message from him the next day, thanking me for coming and apologizing for not having much time for me at the event. I replied, yet with the conviction that I wouldn’t suggest meeting up, the ball was in his court. Now that he was technically freed up from his project, he should have had time to see me, shouldn’t he?
A week went by. Thankfully it didn’t pass too painfully slow, I was kept distracted by some house guests, and he was gradually fading from my thoughts. Exactly a week and he resurfaced with a “ca va?” text message. Ca va much better… now that I’ve heard from you! The flame in my heart was rekindled. Hence, when he texted me the next day with the following message:
07/03/2012 8:22 pm Faut q j déménage en urgence ce weekend / I have to move urgently this weekend.
I hurriedly, sweetly, and stupidly responded with an invitation to stay with me for a few days. A promise that I would soon very seriously regret…