“You’re really nice,” I say to him. My tears have totally dried up now. It’s amazing how therapeutic telling all your problems to a total stranger can be. No wonder so many of my peers are in therapy. “Thanks for listening to me. Although I must sound completely psychotic to you. I bet you’re wondering what you did to deserve having such a total wack job sit down next to you.”
“I think you’ve just been through a rotten time,” my seatmate says with a smile. “And so you have every right to sound psychotic. But I don’t consider you a wack job. At least, not a total one.”
“Really?” He also has, in addition to the lovely eyelashes and lips, really nice-looking hands. Strong and clean-tanned, too-with just a light spatter of dark hair on the back of them. “I just don’t want you to think I go around giving blow jobs to all the guys I feel sorry for. I really don’t. That was my first one. Ever.”
“You don’t? That’s too bad. I was going to tell you about how I was raised in a Romanian orphanage.”
I stare at him. “You’re Romanian?”
“That was a joke,” he says. “To make you feel sorry for me. So you’ll-”
“I get it,” I say. “Funny.”
“Not really,” he says with a sigh. “I suck at jokes. I always have. Hey, listen. Are you hungry? Want to go to the dining car? It’s a long way to Souillac, and you’ve eaten all my nuts.”
I look down at the empty plastic bag in my lap.
“Oh my God,” I say. “I’m so sorry! I was starving-yes, let’s go to the dining car. I’ll buy you dinner. To make up for the nuts. And the crying. And the thing about the blow job. I’m really sorry about that.”
“I’ll take you to dinner,” he says gallantly. “To make up for your recent mistreatment at the hands of one of my gender. How’s that?”
“Um,” I say, “okay. But…I don’t even know your name. I’m Lizzie Nichols.”
“I’m Jean-Luc de Villiers,” he says, holding out his right hand. “And I think you should know, I’m an investment banker. But I don’t own a McMansion or a BMW. I swear.”
I automatically take his hand, but instead of shaking it, I just stare at him, momentarily flustered.
“Oh,” I say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I’m sure not all investment bankers are bad-”
“It’s okay,” Jean-Luc says, giving my hand a squeeze. “Most of us are. Just not me. Now come on. Let’s go eat.”
His fingers are warm and just slightly rough. I gaze up at him, wondering if the rosy glow all around him is really just caused by the setting sun, or if he is, by some chance, an angel sent down from heaven to rescue me.
Hey. You never know. Even an investment banker could be an angel. God moves in mysterious ways.
The “Empire waist”-a waistline beginning just beneath the bust-was popularized by Napoleon Bonaparte’s wife, Josephine, who, during her husband’s reign as emperor beginning in 1804, favored the “classical” style of Greek art, and emulated the togalike robes worn by figures on ancient pottery from that time.
In order to better simulate the look of the pottery figures, many young women dampened their skirts so that their legs, beneath the sopping garments, were more apparent. It is from this tradition that the modern-day “wet T-shirt contest” is believed to have derived.
History of Fashion
SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS
10
The way to get a man interested and to hold his interest was to talk about him, and then gradually lead the conversation around to yourself-and keep it there.
– Margaret Mitchell (1900-1949), U.S. author
He isn’t an angel. At least, not unless angels are born and raised in Houston, which is where he’s from.
Also, angels don’t have degrees from the University of Pennsylvania, the way Jean-Luc does.
Also, angels don’t have parents who are going through an acrimonious divorce, the way Jean-Luc’s are, so that when they want to come visit their father-the way Jean-Luc’s taken a few weeks off from his job at the investment firm of Lazard Freres to do-they have to come all the way to France, since that’s where Jean-Luc’s dad, a Frenchman, lives.
Also, angels tell better jokes. He wasn’t lying about the joke thing. He really does suck at them.
But that’s okay. Because I would rather be with a bad joke-teller who remembers I hate tomatoes than with a gambling welfare cheat who doesn’t.
Because Jean-Luc does-remember about the tomatoes, I mean. When I come back from the ladies’ room (picturesquely referred to on French trains as the “toilet”), where I went to repair the damage done to my face by my tears-fortunately, nothing a new application of eyeliner, undereye cover-up, lipstick, and powder couldn’t cure, along with some hair combing-I find the waiter already at our table, taking our order. Jean-Luc does all the talking because, being half French, he speaks the language fluently. And quickly. I can’t catch everything he says, but I hear “pas de tomates” several times.
Which even I, with my summer-school French, know means “no tomatoes.”
It is all I can do to keep from bursting into tears all over again. Because Jean-Luc has renewed my faith in men. There are nice, funny, totally good-looking guys out there. You just have to know where to look…and apparently, where NOT to look. Which is in the ladies’ shower of your dorm.
Of course, I’ve found this one on a train…which means after I get off this train, I’ll probably never see him again.
But that’s okay. It’s fine. I mean, what did I expect, to walk out of one relationship right into another? Right. Like that’s even healthy. Like it would have had a chance of lasting, since I’m so obviously on the rebound from Andy.
Plus, you know. The whole two-ships-passing-in-the-night thing.
Oh, and the fact that I told him about the blow job. (WHY? WHY DID I DO THAT??? WHY DO I HAVE TO HAVE THE BIGGEST MOUTH IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE???)
Still. He’s just so…cute. And not married-no ring. Maybe he’s got a girlfriend-actually, no guy this cute could not have a girlfriend-but if so, he certainly isn’t talking about her.
Which is good. Because why would I want to sit here and listen to this totally cute guy talk about his girlfriend? I mean, obviously, if he talked about her I would listen, since he listened so patiently when I was talking about Andy.
But, you know. I’m glad he’s not.
He orders wine to go with dinner, and when it arrives and the waiter pours it out for us, Jean-Luc lifts his glass, clinks it with mine, and says, “To blow jobs.”
I nearly choke on the bread I’m scarfing down. Because even though we’re on a train, we’re on a train in France, so the food is incredible. At least the bread is. So incredible there’s no possible way I can resist it after I take a tiny nibble from a roll in the basket on the table. Perfectly crunchy crust with a warm, soft middle? How can I abstain? Sure, I’ll regret it later, when my size nine jeans won’t zip up.
But for right now, I’m still in heaven. Because, for such a bad joke-teller, Jean-Luc is still pretty funny.
And I’ve missed bread. I’ve really, really missed it.
“To blow jobs we want back,” I correct him.
“I can only pray,” Jean-Luc says, “there’s no woman out there wishing she could take back one she’s given me.”
“Oh,” I say, gently laying a curl of salted butter on top of the center of my roll and watching it melt into the warm bread, “I’m sure there’s not. I mean, you don’t seem like a user to me.”
“Yes,” he says, “but then neither did-what’s his name again? Blow-job boy?”
“Andy,” I say, blushing. God, why did I ever open my big mouth about that? “And my instincts were off about him. Because of the accent. And his wardrobe. If he’d been American, I never would have fallen for him. Or his lies.”