It was true. The Mexican did make me wait. He held first place in my heart for a number of months, that said, things were far from crystal clear with us since the beginning. Even though I was sort of waiting for him to come around, I was nevertheless a hopeless victim of the romantic vibes of Paris—which had other plans for my summer by throwing a few other beaux mecs my way. And that’s just how I met the film guy.
It was a Saturday night back at the beginning of June. I was going to the birthday party of a friend’s husband that was being held at a bar, privatized for the occasion. I knew everyone who was going to be attending, therefore meeting someone new was the furthest thing from mind. I was instead hoping to meet up with the Mexican after the party, so I dressed cutely just in case. Trying not to check my phone screen every 2 seconds, I finally got a text message from him around 11 pm saying that he already had house guests for the launch of his project so he was busy with them. Ahhh the Mexican! By then I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks from our first encounters so I was getting a little fed up with waiting.
This bad news called for another glass of champagne (or maybe 2 or 3). I tried to keep up a happy demeanor and eventually he drifted from my mind—helped by the bubbly. Around midnight I was sitting at the bar talking to the birthday boy’s (married) brother, when out of nowhere this attractive artsy looking guy appeared in front of us and struck up a conversation. Seeing that this newcomer was obviously more interested in talking to me, the brother discretely wandered off, leaving me alone with the handsome homme. Who was this dashing stranger? How did he end up at our private party?! It turned out that he was a regular of the bar and was, in essence, a party crasher. He wore smart glasses, had a bright smile and slightly salt and peppery hair, making it hard to guess his age, but I figured he was mid to late 30s, a perfectly good age for me.
He bought me a drink and I learned that he worked in the cinema industry. Hmmm… I’d always wanted to date a film guy! Maybe the problem with the Mexican was that he was too artistic, film was a better balance, artistic yet with a business side. That night, I didn’t care all that much what he did, he was really fun and easy to talk to, and most importantly he was there, unlike the obscure Mexican.
He wanted to go out for a cigarette so I tagged along to keep him company. I was probably rattling on about something stupid when my words were suddenly stifled by fervent kisses! Well, well, well! Someone was rather forward. I didn’t put up much resistance until I heard this banging from the inside of the bar window. There was Pussycat, hands up in this puzzled WTF look. I mirrored her gesture, I was just as surprised as she was!
The film guy stayed by my side the rest of the night. He bought me another drink and we headed downstairs where the rest of our group had taken to the dance floor, yet I can’t say we associated much with the others. We danced together the whole time, a clumsy drunken version of le Rock (a French style of dancing similar “swing” dancing, learn the basic steps with this amusing video), interspersed with more making out.
Wow, I was back in France, no more dreams of Mexican sweethearts dancing in my head. Was there more hope with this guy for some lights, camera, action?
