December 8th, 1990

December 8th, 1990
Jean Jacques apartment, Montmartre, Paris

I can’t begin to say how happy I am to be back in this beautiful city, presently blanketed in twinkling lights, with an atmosphere that feels hopeful and looks inviting with people everywhere, all bundled up, yet still managing to look chic (a look I swear you have to be French to pull off.)

Jean Jacques offered to meet me at Charles de Gaulle but it’s an easy bus ride into the city so I came straight to the flat.
“Ecossais! Entrer, entrer,” he gushed, smiling widely.
“Thanks Jean Jacques,” I said, turning my cheek for the first of the classic Parisian double cheek kiss. “Smells so good in here, what’re you cooking?”
“A little something for the broken art,” he shrugged.
“Ugh,” I groaned. “Is it that obvious?”

He wasted no time popping open a bottle of Champagne while I got comfy on the couch, truly, the squishiest, loveliest couch ever.
“To the friendship,” he said, clinking his glass to mine.
“Thank you,” I said, glancing around. “Your apartment looks beautiful, it’s so lovely to be here again.” I had a feeling he wasn’t entirely responsible for the extravagant Christmas tree and decorations.
“First, we talk and enjoy the bubbles, then we go,” he motioned to outside.
“Sounds good. How have you been?”
“Tres, tres, biz e,” he grinned.
“With?” I asked.
“The work and the lady.”
“Lady? Or ladies?”
He raised his finger.
“Ooohh. A special lady. Are you in love?” I asked.
“Je suis follement amoureux,” he uttered, misty eyed.
I hate to admit it but I felt a bit taken aback, not jealous, just a little put out, which made no sense as it’s not as if I was ever in love with him.
“Deeply in love, huh? Do I get to meet her?”
“Oui, ce soir,” he beamed. “But first you tell me of le garcon who makes you so sad.”
For some ridiculous reason, Ben came to mind but when I looked at Jean Jacques, the little pouty face he was making, made me laugh.
“No,” I stated. “I don’t want to talk about it. Tell me your good news, I want to hear all about your new love.”
“Ah,” he sighed, hand on heart. “Where to begin?”



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