Of Fries and the French Man Part III

Part I here.

Part II here.

I’m alone in the apartment. It’s our second night together and you’re out. I would have a cigarette but I’ve quit. I don’t have any friends in London and it’s too darn cold to go out anyway.

I watch Trainspotting and wonder how drunk you’ll get tonight. Or if you’ll mention me to her.

At 2 am I hear the keys jiggle. You stumble into the apartment, drunk of course. “You’re still up?”, you say, and plant a kiss on my forehead. “Did you have a good night?”, I ask. “Yes, CC is really funny. I tell you more tomorrow okay? I’m really tired.”

CC. I assume that’s your nickname for her. At least he comes home to me, I think. You go to bed and I lie awake next to you, again.

I don’t hold any grudge or resentment towards you. If I could have men eating out of my hands, I would choose it. I would choose a life where I could have any man I wanted, a life where they all wanted me, where they are willing to do anything for me. I’d choose that kind of existence and I have no shame in admitting it.

And you have that. You with your charm, with your dimples, with your brown skin, with your French accent, with your dance moves, with your sense of humour. You have girls flocking towards you. Why would you need to choose one?

I guess this is why I stay. Because I understand why you do it. I don’t blame you for living this way, because I would do the same if given a choice. I would spend each night in a different person’s arms, take in all the different scents and sensations. I would turn it into a game, a sport.

 

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