notes from the road

Dear French girl,

It was just a chance meeting at festival that brought us together, but it felt like the universe had arranged it so. Things were going to be great and our first two meetings only proved it. You spoke patiently and poured the language out of me. Within weeks we would be hanging off each other and you would give me the keys to your language. And then for summer holidays we would travel around France in your little Clio skipping stones in rivers and making fun of slow walking tourists. But you were busy when I was free, and I was gone when you had time for me. Then you didn’t reply to my message. Yeah it stung a bit, but I’m not going to sit on the pavement with my empty hat off in front of me.

I don’t need you for the language of love. Now with just 48 hours sans reply to my message, you have been replaced. I joined the Frouard table tennis team – and I don’t care if it’s dorky, man-filled or un cool.  I played with finesse and was showered with French praise. Not only that but I re-met a friend from my football days.  So there you are, if you bail early you’ll miss out on the gold – it’s your loss missy and I wish you well.

No, I’m not crying. I just have some sweat in my eye from when I ran back from the  table tennis club, alone.


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