Its always that last one that does you in. Everything is fine, but then you take it one step too far, and before you know it you're over the edge. You find your self slightly drunk crying in the middle of the street because you've lost your phone, can't find you keys, you've probably missed the last metro and your favorite lipstick is in the gutter, the cap gone never to be seen again. At least for me that's the routine. Lubrification and disater, two things that often go hand and hand, in my Murphy's law filled life.
Last night was not a total bust. Sometimes, when I get what I call " the mean reds" which is far worse than the blues, I have the tendancy to be a little bit distructive. I told one unassuming French man to piss off on the train, and let the another drive me around Paris. Fred, a sweet, 31 (potentially) Arabic/Italian/French guy was standing in the front gate entry way of the apartment. Some folks would call my next actions dangerous, foolish and unwise. I call it serendipity. Defenseless, and with out a cell phone, Fred asked me if I wanted to take a ride and I agreed. We went to cité, France's version of the Bank of America pavillion, or the 02 stadium in England, around serveral different arrondisments. I let the window down and let the cool fall air blow over me. I had had a shit night. I deserved for this moment at least to have fun. We walked along the canal St. Martin and under the moons glow with all the other young lovers Fred kissed me. His tongue swirled its way in and out of my mouth, and then he kissed my cheeks, my lips and my neck. Hand in hand we walked back to his car driving around for hours, we talked. In my most basic French I explained what I was doing here. While I tried to follow along as he spoke all to quickly about what he did. Apparently he owns a store, maybe.
Not that it actually matters. I doubt that I'll ever see Fred again. He was what I needed for the moment. A nice guy, to ride around in the back of car with, straight up USA style.