The Grass is Always Greener
The smell of Belgian beer and smoke-stained clothing filled the air as the thump thump thump of electro house pulsated out of the speakers. I subconsciously ran my thumb across the side of my glass where the name of the hole-in-the-wall bar was etched, in hopes that its inebriated patrons would recall their former escapades and return for another go. I could barely make out the freckles she was trying to hide under her make up and while she described her humanitarian work in Ghana, I couldn’t help but imagine what she looked like the morning after, hair undone and battle armor washed away. I had grown tired of being stereotyped and placed in the role of the worldly American, wise and uninhibited, ready to give one a glimpse of what lies outside of their secluded corner of France.
“Tu m’écoutes?” The freckled blonde said. The swish of her hips and the devilish grin she sent my way let me know that this interaction would simply be a slight variation of what I had experienced since I had arrived two years before.
“Oui, I’m listening… That’s quite an amazing experience, I wish I had the courage to make a life changing voyage like that!” A stock reply to cover up the fact that my last glass of port had me losing focus, but she didn’t seem to notice. That, or she didn’t care. Her pouty, full lips intrigued me. Maybe this time will be different, I thought to myself as I pushed my reservations back down and fell into my role as the escape for another soul lost in the monotomy of daily life.
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