I dreaded Monday. It meant another week of frustration over a city that wouldn’t let me in, over a business that wouldn’t sell, and over a life that seemed to pass me by. The weekend was too short, and Monday was just three days away.
I have often wondered what it would feel like to love and be loved by a French man. For a man like that to call me ‘mon amour’, flirt with me unrelentingly, write me poems, bring me breakfast in bed and take me to the movies. I wonder what it would feel like for a man like that to talk to me about art and architecture, about bread – French bread – and everything I could do with it.