I have a French lover. I'm not bragging; it's just something that happened at another time in my life. There is nothing so special about a French lover though perhaps he is a bit more romantic than American men. He has a poetic nature though he is a scientist and I believe the French look upon the two ideas and see no dissimulation.
In our younger days he would write beautiful letters spelling out his adoration for me, proffering me kisses, hugs and at times, more descriptive offerings. He was never embarrassed at silly lines and childish emotions. That he was a scientist by day, a man of serious endeavors made no difference. He wrote like a child; or like Proust. No American man would write the things he did more than once.
I have saved all those letters from the early days of our romance. I love the colorful red, white and blue envelopes with his foreign handwriting, the whimsical stamps, each letter showing me the different addresses I've had over the years. Now we exchange e-mails; his are still the stuff of boyish fantasy while mine have grown up somewhat and are more direct in nature. He is still full of romance and warmth. I can only go so far with this silliness. He has a wife, therefore I no longer take him at his words. I'm a hard-edged American woman these days but I wasn't always this way. I have quite a poetic nature myself and a romantic streak that has caused me no small amount of trouble.
To be truthful, he has always had this wife. I've never met her nor even seen a picture of her. When we met he was filled with anger at her. He said they had reached a mutual loathing for each other but would probably never divorce because of the two children and French laws that make it more difficult to separate. He was no more original than American men in this regard: he said she was frigid and hated sex. I thought, but did not say, typical. I wanted at times to add, "she just doesn't want you" but there was no reason to be mean. He would always be French and I would always be American and we could only wring so much meaning at such a distance. Though he would often fantasize about a life together, I did not take him seriously. He would often say we will grow old together in a cottage by the sea and would send me cute cards of old couples holding hands on the porch, leaving me to believe he held this in his mind as our future.
For many years this did not bother me at all. I let him have his romantic fantasies. Ours was a compartmentalized affair. It took place in letters and telephone conversations. He came to the states about three times a year. I never went to France or even expected to in those days. I did not have that kind of life. Or possibly imagination?
We ended things after five years but found each other again much later and I did go to Paris then. He was still married and the children were grown. I was more droll at this juncture--I failed to understand his outpourings of emotion over me if he never intended for us to be together. He said the two things were different and I was being purposely obtuse. Maybe. Now he comes to the states only once a year and we spend a week together in Washington D.C. We are extremely compatible which always surprises me. We are not alike and yet he always refers to me as his twin. In some spiritual realm we are twins. In real life, not so much.
He likes routine and if you've ever known a Frenchman you know that first and foremost consists of eating. His meals must be at the same time each day, he likes a good variety of choices but usually orders the same thing. He loves the American breakfast though he likes wine with it. He enjoys a hearty lunch and an even heartier dinner with cognac after. He drinks espresso, smokes cigars and loves to shop. He talks fondly of his clothing as do I. He proudly showed me his Balenciaga jacket that he found at a reasonable price in an out-of-the-way sample sale and I showed him my Missoni dress I paid a lot of money for but was still a good deal.
My usual answer to when we eat is "whenever." My answer to what we eat is "whatever." My answer to shopping is "okay, fine." I think I do this just to point out our differences. I really like to eat and shop too but see an over-zealous love of both to be, dare I say, bourgeoisie.
These days our biggest differences are over politics. In our younger days, I did not have political views which seemed to work out well. Now in our later incarnation, I have my views and he, well...let's say we disagreed but for my part, I was not strenuous and he admitted his views were outdated but is too old to change now. As an American, I believe wholeheartedly in change. Or maybe it's as a woman. Nevertheless, we've had a few spats over the last decade and he has denounced me because of them. I just laugh and say we can have differing viewpoints, it is completely irrelevant; he says, no, these things matter and he cannot take me seriously anymore. He wonders why I am not the lovely, artistic girl he met many years ago and said so, in no uncertain terms.
I began this story saying I HAVE a French lover, but I HAD a French lover is the more correct statement. He no longer sends me endearing messages or shacks up in a D.C. hotel with me anymore. I asked for an explanation other than the one given because I can't believe our relationship ends over Iraq, Israel, the Palestinians, capitalism, socialism--they are too removed for serious consideration on my part but he believes otherwise. Or at least that is his reasoning.
Yes, he has stopped all communication with me. I feel so European having a breakup over current affairs arguing in cafes and drinking pastis as we did. Maybe it is not the real reason; maybe he has found someone else. That is what I really
suspect but do not say.
I had many nice times with my French lover and we were together on 9/11 in D.C. which makes for more shared memories (we were stranded in New York when the air controllers went on strike and met John Belushi) but there comes a time to let things go. There really wasn't much there all along it would seem. Nevertheless, he was a part of my life for a good many years and I don't appreciate being cut off but then again, so what? I will have to content myself with old letters and cards, his intriguing French phrasing. Where does all the affection go when it disappears? Was it there at all or just a dream? Who will I call the next time I am in Paris? Did he really exist or is he just a fictional character borrowed for this short story?
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