Three times a week, I have to eat lunch with my French class, and we’re only allowed to speak French. This is a little awkward, given that none of us really has a firm grasp of the language. There aren’t enough teachers/tutors to sit at every table, so one group of kids usually lucks out and gets to make whispered conversation in English. Today, we thought we could be that table. And then, at the last minute, a tutor latched on to our table and said he’d be joining us. His words were a little garbled, though, because he was possibly the most gorgeous male specimen I’d ever encountered and time seemed to be going a little slow for some reason.
This guy was beautiful. He had this finely chiseled jawline, blue eyes, and some scruff around the edges but no full-on facial hair. His hair was black and luscious. I think he was Italian. (It just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?)
We (a group of six hormonally-driven girls) just stared at him in wonder for at least a full minute. He spoke French with a fluency that made me want to devote myself to the language, which was a stark contrast to the stilted sentences the rest of us struggled to string together. It was like pulling teeth. After forty minutes of actual cringe-worthy conversation, he excused himself to get a drink. We all looked at each other. There was a minor hitch in the proceedings.
“He’s baked, isn’t he?” said my friend Tish.
“Yeah,” said Kat dreamily. “Still gorgeous, though.”
I think the effort involved with sitting at our table nearly killed the poor guy, stoned or not. When the hour was over, he had this look of a traumatized soldier in combat, and he just said, “I think it’s about time for a nap.” The next part came out like word vomit. “Thanks for… eating lunch with me, guys.”
“No,” said Kat earnestly, “thank you.”