Title: Cats drink milk.
Genre: Fiction
Rating: G
Thoughts: This is inspired by a true story. The situation and nationalities have been changed, but yes – someone really did do this once.
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It was amazing how well flattery worked. Even though I only knew ten words of French, it didn’t matter that Caroline didn’t know what I was saying. She probably thought I was telling her she looked beautiful in the moonlight; in fact, I’m pretty sure that’s what I told her I was saying. Unfortunately all I know how to say is: The cat laps the milk. Other than that I sort of make up the words. Reminds me of the Eddy Izzard skit where he goes to France with a monkey and a table and a chair.
The important fact is that Caroline likes me because she thinks I’m French. Most of the time I can just sit around and sip wine while her friends say dumb things. Pretending to be foreign removes the whole need for communication. She actually told her roommate that we communicate on a ‘deeper level’. I almost laughed. It’s become a game to see how well I can frustrate her when we try to ‘communicate’. Just about anything I do I wrong I can successfully blame on the fact that I’m ‘French’.
Today I’m an hour late for breakfast, which if I remember correctly we’re meeting people. In truth I’m still kind of hung-over from last night. Caroline thinks it’s cute. I think she’s crazy, but I’m not about to let go of a girl that doesn’t demand any effort on my part to maintain.
I’m supposed to meet them at Le Madeline just down the street from my frat house so I decide to do the European thing and walk, hoping the brisk air will help wake me up. I’m pretty sure that smell I keep thinking I’ll pass – is actually me. At least I can claim that I’m French and thus immune to American bathing standards, after all that’s why cologne was made, right?
Caroline is sitting by the fire, two other girls and a guy with her; I don’t recognize any of them but it’s not like I pay much attention to her friends anyways.
“Jean!” Carolyn gets up. Her mouth is drawn into a little lump of a pout above her chin and she’s trying to look down her nose at me, but at least she gets up to come and give me a hug.
“Le chat boit du lait,” I say in her ear. It has the same reaction every time; she sort of wiggles and hugs me tighter, as if in the next moment I’ll float away. The reality of the situation is that if she knew I weren’t French, this relationship – if I can even call it that – would be over.
“Jean, I want you to meet my friends.”
I really don’t want to meet them, but sometimes you have to make sacrifices. She pulls my chair as close to hers as she can get it and we sit down, squeezed around a four person table with the five of us.
“Jean, this is Pierre and Francesca, they’re from Paris! Isn’t that cool? They’re visiting the school and I just had to get you guys together.” Caroline continues to chatter in my ear, but all I hear is blahblahblahblah – oh crap.
“Bonjour Jean. Il fait beau à la viande vous. Caroline nous a dit tellement au sujet de l’école. Que pensez-vous cela ?“
