Page 22 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
Because the menu… let's talk about the menu for a second. It's pricier than a top-tier ticket to the Jets. Five euros for a mini coffee. Eight for a double. And let’s not talk about the main dishes.
And the fashion parade around here? It's like a runway show, with everyone dressed to the nines. Makes me feel like I've stepped into some highfalutin' European movie set, where every glance lands on a scene straight out of those fancy travel magazines. My six bosses fit right in, and for all their “difficult student” business, they are actually downright delightful. They aren’t used to someone telling them what to do, and I’ve got no trouble doing it.
“For example,” I continue, “you can be ‘in’ a movie, but ‘on’ TV. Go figure, right?”
“That’s ridiculous,” the CEO of a telecom company declares with his pen—which probably costs more than my truck back home—pointed in my face.
“It is what it is, Francois. You don’t have to like it, you just have to learn it.”
“You heard the woman,” Jeanne adds with a nod in my direction. “Don’t interrupt teacher.”
“Theteacher,” I correct her with a cheeky smile.
“Oh la la.” Jeanne rolls her eyes. “Theteacher.”
There's a collective murmur of confusion that makes me grin. “Don't worry, you guys will get it.” I'm met with a patchwork of smiles and sighs—the best part of my day.
“How come we are ‘guys’ if we are woman?”
“Women.”
“Encore,” Lydia, one of my favorite CEO pupils who runs an haute couture company, groans. “I knew that.”
Chuckles from around the table are the perfect segue, and I delve into the exceptions to the rule. Even as I do, I’ve got this feeling of sweet nostalgia. It’s been an intense month, but one that has shown me time and time again that this really was the right decision.
Sometimes, the city's grandeur is overwhelming, each face a reminder that I still don’t have a real footing. So many strangers, the streets are full of them. But new friendships and this daily class keep me planted in the present.
It’s only been a month, but Paris has adopted me, and I am here for it.
“We’ve got just enough time to cover?—”
My eye catches something through the glass pyramid—a silhouette that sets my heart skipping. It's a man in a light jacket, and for a second, my world tilts.
Mathieu.
“Hang on, folks,” I say, my voice a little too casual as I push back from the table. “Just give me one quick minute.” I weave through the café's maze of tables, my gaze fixed on the figure standing on the gravel, statuesque and oh-so-familiar.
But as I reach the glass, weaving through the clusters of tourists with their cameras at the ready, the figure melts into the crowd, his outline blurring until I'm not sure if he was ever really there.
I stand there for a moment, my hand on the pyramid, the cool surface of the glass against my palm.
It wasn’t him.
I take a deep breath, force a smile, and spin back toward my students, my escapee heart slowly returning to its cage.
“False alarm.” I return to my role as the guide through the tangled jungle of English grammar. But as I resume the lesson, the ghost of that silhouette lingers.
Class wraps up with the usual mix of relieved sighs and the occasional‘Merci, Annie.’
This has become the kind of routine I never knew I'd love. The café empties, and I'm packing up my notes when Anton, the barista with a knack for drawing tiny Eiffel Towers in foam, calls out.
“À demain, Annie?”
“Bien sûr, Anton!”
As the last CEO student struts out, already texting and on his Bluetooth earbud with a call, I pack up my markers and glance around the now-quiet café. This café and this hour of teaching—it's helped make a city that once felt overwhelmingly foreign, a little more friendly.
It's funny how life works. Back home, I never would've figured myself for the strict English tutor to high Parisian society in a gorgeous snooty café.
