From JFK to Charles de Gaulle [pt 6/??]
anonymous
August 14 2011, 01:07:12 UTC
Alfred didn’t see any of his classmates at the café, for art students they pulled off inconspicuous surprisingly well, but then again, chic yet understated bohemian was the rule in the part of Paris not occupied by sock and sandal wearing tourists. The male waiter who greeted him and found him a table was next replaced by Marianne, as beautiful as he remembered, if not even more beautiful now because she was expecting him. As happy as she seemed to see him again, Alfred must have felt probably ten times happier, and though he tried to hide his excitement, it couldn’t help bubbling over sometimes.
Their conversation was often interrupted whenever she had to go help another customer, but Alfred was able to introduce himself a little more coherently this time, a university student from New York studying photography and animation, and in the process, managed to discover a little more about her. Marianne turned out to be a few years older than he was, from a city in southern France he had not heard of but would research later tonight, and she had studied business in university with the intent of opening her own establishment in the near future.
Most importantly, the receipt copy she handed him had her name and phone number.
“I thought we could talk somewhere else, perhaps when I am not so busy,” she suggested, smiling brightly.
Alfred tucked the slip of paper into his jacket as if it were a precious jewel, feeling almost giddy from this success. “Then I’ll see you soon, Marianne!”
Throughout the next two days, Alfred discovered that his fellow Americans had been hard at work on his behalf, investigating the lovely and mysterious Marianne.
“That girl is a flirt, Al,” Illinois told him matter-of-factly.
“We were watching her before you got there. She smiles at everyone, certainly more than our waiter, but especially at the good-looking folks. Male or female. There was this one tasty German businessman we were checking out as well…”
Before Texas could digress too much, Illinois continued, “But she was waiting for you. She was looking at every new customer coming through the door, and cuffed the guy who got to you first pretty wicked.” Alfred’s mournful look brightened up considerably at that.
“So… you think she might like me?”
“Sure, I think so! But more than she likes any other regular customer? I don’t know about that…”
“She’s on a whole other level, Al, it’s gonna take something else to get her attention.”
“I’m just going to be myself,” Alfred answered as confidently as he could. That sort of thing always worked in the movies, he was pretty sure.
The girls made noncommittal noises of agreement. “At the very least, let the boys find you something better to wear.”
He had to concede, to himself anyway, that as much as he preferred his hoodies and t-shirts and jeans, they did look a little shabby worn out of the studio and in the streets of Paris. “Did they uhh, measure me in my sleep or something? Because those pants were really tight.”
“Yes. Yes, they did. I volunteered to help, but they said no.”
“Guys, I appreciate your help with the clothes, really, I do,” Alfred told them the next morning at the studio, “but I think I can handle the rest of this on my own.”
“What, like, by being yourself?” York and Jersey both gave him dubious looks very similar to the ones Texas and Illinois had given him last night. “If you’re sure…”
“Well, I thought you should at least know something about her previous boyfriend, Al.”
This time all three of them turned to gape at D.C.
“Dude, are you C.I.A or something?” Alfred asked, starting to suspect that instead of getting caught in a romantic flick, he was in a spy movie instead, and not the James Bond sort of spy movies his father disparaged but secretly watched whenever he thought no one was watching.
Still under the impression that he was being helpful, D.C. continued, voice lowered to a whisper, “I heard her ex… is the son of the Russian diplomat here. Kind of interesting, don’t you think? Considering…”
They watched as Alfred’s eyes narrowed, his usual careless smile gone, his expression now keen and determined. “I see… Challenge accepted.”
From JFK to Charles de Gaulle [pt 7/??]
anonymous
August 14 2011, 01:08:36 UTC
He had to do a lot of Googling and calling and walking around after class, but finally found a chocolatier who would cooperate for only a minimal fee. It took another two days before Alfred dialed Marianne’s phone number, willing his voice to not tremble or get all high-pitched, and when she picked up, he asked her to meet him in the gardens behind the Eiffel Tower the next day.
A little after the lunch hour, she arrived, wearing a silk flower in her flowing honey-blonde hair, which was no longer tied up in a neat bun for work, looking perfectly feminine and stylish in a grey Chanel coat and tall boots. He could not keep from flushing as he waved at her, feeling the light of her dazzling blue eyes on him, and when she kissed his cheeks in greeting, he honestly thought fireworks must be going off in his chest.
They walked along the Seine, hands tucked deep in their pockets against the cold, talking about their families, their favorite past times, various things, sometimes having to try to explain words that did not have an apparent equivalent in each other’s language and laughing at the descriptions. Alfred then tried to get her to explain what it was she said during their first meeting, after he told her he didn’t know how to speak French. She blushed and demurred, but finally admitted that she said she thought he was very cute.
“Really? I mean, of course! Thanks!” Trying to hide his embarrassment behind a laugh, Alfred took his phone out and started typing away. “So… vous êtes très… No?”
Marianne gave him a coy look before saying, “No, not really. Because now I think I would say, tu es très mignon.”
He went ahead and typed translate tu es très mignon into the Google search bar, just to make sure, but he didn’t have to have Matthew with him to understand what she really meant.
“Well, I think you’re very awesome, Marianne!” he said, glancing down at her. “I mean, super. Super awesome!”
She raised an eyebrow at him, and he was beginning to think he should have kept his big mouth shut, but then she smiled and thanked him. And even though it was not spring time yet, it felt like summer to Alfred.
After a few more minutes, they arrived at the chocolate shop, and the store clerk brought out the custom box Alfred had requested, beautifully wrapped in white paper and gold ribbon. At his invitation, Marianne opened the lid and gasped at the handmade chocolates nestled within the tissue paper, each one painstakingly shaped into a delicate rose blossom.
“But these are too beautiful to eat,” she protested when Alfred picked one up for her.
“Just try one!”
She carefully bit into the chocolate and made a hum of delight. “Oh, these are marvelous!”
“I made them just for you, Marianne,” he said, grinning at her reaction. “Of course, I had to eat all the ones I messed up, which were a lot.”
“Poor darling! However did you manage?” Marianne kissed his cheek again. “Alfred, this is so sweet. Thank you so much.”
Alfred had the clerk put the half-finished chocolates into a bag for Marianne and gallantly offered to walk her to the nearest station.
“Won’t you be late for class?” Marianne asked.
“Today is studio work, I’ll make it up tonight.”
“May I ask what you have been working on? It sounds so fascinating.”
Alfred explained the various projects he had started for the semester, this week’s architecture sketch assignments, the research for his European film class. Marianne seemed utterly absorbed by his talk, and even recommended a few French filmmakers that he ought to look into when he got the chance.
“You are so lucky to be able to go overseas and study art, Alfred,” she murmured, sighing dreamily. “I have always wanted to be an artist, ever since I was a little girl. I tried, but it turned out I had more talent for cooking than for painting.”
“Oh, you are an artist with food, Marianne, I think that’s already awesome. And you can still go overseas someday!”
“I know, I know. Still, I wish I could a real artist, like you.”
“Well, I wish my dad could be a real chef, like you. But without the frogs or snails you French people eat, his food is gross enough on its own, trust me.”
From JFK to Charles de Gaulle [pt 8/??]
anonymous
August 14 2011, 01:21:20 UTC
“What do you mean by that? Grenouille and escargot are divine!” Marianne declared, practically radiating Gallic pride for her nation’s cuisine. “I shall convert your uncouth American tastes someday.”
“If you deep-fry them and serve them with fries, I’ll consider taking back what I said. Maybe.”
“Alfred, you are terrible!” she exclaimed, giggling. “Do you want me to lose my job at the café?”
“Well, that gives you a reason to run away and be an artist with me!”
“I’m not sure I want to now, if I have to put up with your fried food all of the time.”
“Hey now, I saw a McDonald’s in Paris, I bet you must have tried their fries once or twice!” The idea of a classy girl such as Marianne eating at McDonald’s was pretty ridiculous, but to Alfred’s surprise, Marianne made a face and swore that she regretted every moment. That was actually encouraging, at least she tried, so maybe there was hope for him?
By the time they reached the station, Alfred knew his heart belonged completely to Marianne Bonnefoy. There may have been prettier girls back home, or at least girls who had more plastic surgery, but in his opinion, none could compare to Marianne’s natural sophistication, her intellect, her vibrant personality, her passion for living life to its fullest. Before today, he had never understood what it meant when painters talked about their muse, but in Marianne, he now saw his inspiration, his reason for living.
Instead of saying all of that, Alfred gave her a big farewell hug, catching her off guard. Marianne laughed and tried to wriggle out of his embrace before the train left without her, but he didn’t quite let go until she reached down and patted his bottom. Giving him one last kiss, Marianne darted away, still laughing, while Alfred stared after her, blushing fiercely yet smiling like an idiot.
“What are truffles?”
While he walked back to the apartment, Alfred read over the Wikipedia article that Google pulled up, clicked on another link, then another, and ended up completely confused. Well, maybe she was talking about handmade chocolates, but maybe she was hinting that she liked to eat the mushrooms that are also called truffles. Maybe she meant chocolate covered mushrooms? He pondered this question, wondering how they even got into that subject while he was talking about his art classes, and decided he should try to ask her the next time he stopped by the café.
His classmates were eager to hear how his meeting with Marianne went, their given reason for bringing over a bottle of champagne this night: to toast to his success. Granted, all but one of them were underage and so they thought of reasons to toast everything, such as days ending in vowels.
“Tell us, tell us!” Texas shrieked. “Did she like the chocolates? Did you guys kiss?”
“Girl, everyone kisses everyone in France.”
“You know what I mean, French kissing!”
“She liked the chocolates,” Alfred said, grinning. “We walked around the city, talked a lot. And um, we didn’t kiss-kiss, but she kind of touched my butt a little.”
“You do have a nice, touchable butt. Firm, but slightly squishy. Four stars.”
Jersey immediately punched his boyfriend in the ribs, while Texas and Illinois made incomprehensible high-pitched squealing noises.
“Okay, whatever you do, don’t ask her if you guys are dating or together or anything like that,” D.C. said after the hubbub died down. “If you press her about the relationship, she’s going to think you’re British and there goes your chances.”
“But I am British, some generations back anyway…”
“All right, you can’t help that,” D.C. conceded. “But anyway, just be cool. Try to not get all clingy and stalkery. I heard that’s why she broke up with her last boyfriend. He’s an ice skater, you know.”
“Now you’re just making stuff up.” However, York’s comment about his butt suddenly came to mind, and Alfred glanced at his friends.
“Y-you guys don’t think I’m fat, do you?” he asked worriedly. “Should I work out more?”
“You’re not fat, Al!” Illinois insisted. “You’re huggable!”
“Who needs a supermodel boyfriend with a butt you can bounce quarters off anyway?”
Alfred bravely held his tears back, but mentally resolved to walk more and cut back (a little) on his beloved fried food.
Their conversation was often interrupted whenever she had to go help another customer, but Alfred was able to introduce himself a little more coherently this time, a university student from New York studying photography and animation, and in the process, managed to discover a little more about her. Marianne turned out to be a few years older than he was, from a city in southern France he had not heard of but would research later tonight, and she had studied business in university with the intent of opening her own establishment in the near future.
Most importantly, the receipt copy she handed him had her name and phone number.
“I thought we could talk somewhere else, perhaps when I am not so busy,” she suggested, smiling brightly.
Alfred tucked the slip of paper into his jacket as if it were a precious jewel, feeling almost giddy from this success. “Then I’ll see you soon, Marianne!”
Throughout the next two days, Alfred discovered that his fellow Americans had been hard at work on his behalf, investigating the lovely and mysterious Marianne.
“That girl is a flirt, Al,” Illinois told him matter-of-factly.
“We were watching her before you got there. She smiles at everyone, certainly more than our waiter, but especially at the good-looking folks. Male or female. There was this one tasty German businessman we were checking out as well…”
Before Texas could digress too much, Illinois continued, “But she was waiting for you. She was looking at every new customer coming through the door, and cuffed the guy who got to you first pretty wicked.” Alfred’s mournful look brightened up considerably at that.
“So… you think she might like me?”
“Sure, I think so! But more than she likes any other regular customer? I don’t know about that…”
“She’s on a whole other level, Al, it’s gonna take something else to get her attention.”
“I’m just going to be myself,” Alfred answered as confidently as he could. That sort of thing always worked in the movies, he was pretty sure.
The girls made noncommittal noises of agreement. “At the very least, let the boys find you something better to wear.”
He had to concede, to himself anyway, that as much as he preferred his hoodies and t-shirts and jeans, they did look a little shabby worn out of the studio and in the streets of Paris. “Did they uhh, measure me in my sleep or something? Because those pants were really tight.”
“Yes. Yes, they did. I volunteered to help, but they said no.”
“Guys, I appreciate your help with the clothes, really, I do,” Alfred told them the next morning at the studio, “but I think I can handle the rest of this on my own.”
“What, like, by being yourself?” York and Jersey both gave him dubious looks very similar to the ones Texas and Illinois had given him last night. “If you’re sure…”
“Well, I thought you should at least know something about her previous boyfriend, Al.”
This time all three of them turned to gape at D.C.
“Dude, are you C.I.A or something?” Alfred asked, starting to suspect that instead of getting caught in a romantic flick, he was in a spy movie instead, and not the James Bond sort of spy movies his father disparaged but secretly watched whenever he thought no one was watching.
Still under the impression that he was being helpful, D.C. continued, voice lowered to a whisper, “I heard her ex… is the son of the Russian diplomat here. Kind of interesting, don’t you think? Considering…”
They watched as Alfred’s eyes narrowed, his usual careless smile gone, his expression now keen and determined. “I see… Challenge accepted.”
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A little after the lunch hour, she arrived, wearing a silk flower in her flowing honey-blonde hair, which was no longer tied up in a neat bun for work, looking perfectly feminine and stylish in a grey Chanel coat and tall boots. He could not keep from flushing as he waved at her, feeling the light of her dazzling blue eyes on him, and when she kissed his cheeks in greeting, he honestly thought fireworks must be going off in his chest.
They walked along the Seine, hands tucked deep in their pockets against the cold, talking about their families, their favorite past times, various things, sometimes having to try to explain words that did not have an apparent equivalent in each other’s language and laughing at the descriptions. Alfred then tried to get her to explain what it was she said during their first meeting, after he told her he didn’t know how to speak French. She blushed and demurred, but finally admitted that she said she thought he was very cute.
“Really? I mean, of course! Thanks!” Trying to hide his embarrassment behind a laugh, Alfred took his phone out and started typing away. “So… vous êtes très… No?”
Marianne gave him a coy look before saying, “No, not really. Because now I think I would say, tu es très mignon.”
He went ahead and typed translate tu es très mignon into the Google search bar, just to make sure, but he didn’t have to have Matthew with him to understand what she really meant.
“Well, I think you’re very awesome, Marianne!” he said, glancing down at her. “I mean, super. Super awesome!”
She raised an eyebrow at him, and he was beginning to think he should have kept his big mouth shut, but then she smiled and thanked him. And even though it was not spring time yet, it felt like summer to Alfred.
After a few more minutes, they arrived at the chocolate shop, and the store clerk brought out the custom box Alfred had requested, beautifully wrapped in white paper and gold ribbon. At his invitation, Marianne opened the lid and gasped at the handmade chocolates nestled within the tissue paper, each one painstakingly shaped into a delicate rose blossom.
“But these are too beautiful to eat,” she protested when Alfred picked one up for her.
“Just try one!”
She carefully bit into the chocolate and made a hum of delight. “Oh, these are marvelous!”
“I made them just for you, Marianne,” he said, grinning at her reaction. “Of course, I had to eat all the ones I messed up, which were a lot.”
“Poor darling! However did you manage?” Marianne kissed his cheek again. “Alfred, this is so sweet. Thank you so much.”
Alfred had the clerk put the half-finished chocolates into a bag for Marianne and gallantly offered to walk her to the nearest station.
“Won’t you be late for class?” Marianne asked.
“Today is studio work, I’ll make it up tonight.”
“May I ask what you have been working on? It sounds so fascinating.”
Alfred explained the various projects he had started for the semester, this week’s architecture sketch assignments, the research for his European film class. Marianne seemed utterly absorbed by his talk, and even recommended a few French filmmakers that he ought to look into when he got the chance.
“You are so lucky to be able to go overseas and study art, Alfred,” she murmured, sighing dreamily. “I have always wanted to be an artist, ever since I was a little girl. I tried, but it turned out I had more talent for cooking than for painting.”
“Oh, you are an artist with food, Marianne, I think that’s already awesome. And you can still go overseas someday!”
“I know, I know. Still, I wish I could a real artist, like you.”
“Well, I wish my dad could be a real chef, like you. But without the frogs or snails you French people eat, his food is gross enough on its own, trust me.”
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“If you deep-fry them and serve them with fries, I’ll consider taking back what I said. Maybe.”
“Alfred, you are terrible!” she exclaimed, giggling. “Do you want me to lose my job at the café?”
“Well, that gives you a reason to run away and be an artist with me!”
“I’m not sure I want to now, if I have to put up with your fried food all of the time.”
“Hey now, I saw a McDonald’s in Paris, I bet you must have tried their fries once or twice!” The idea of a classy girl such as Marianne eating at McDonald’s was pretty ridiculous, but to Alfred’s surprise, Marianne made a face and swore that she regretted every moment. That was actually encouraging, at least she tried, so maybe there was hope for him?
By the time they reached the station, Alfred knew his heart belonged completely to Marianne Bonnefoy. There may have been prettier girls back home, or at least girls who had more plastic surgery, but in his opinion, none could compare to Marianne’s natural sophistication, her intellect, her vibrant personality, her passion for living life to its fullest. Before today, he had never understood what it meant when painters talked about their muse, but in Marianne, he now saw his inspiration, his reason for living.
Instead of saying all of that, Alfred gave her a big farewell hug, catching her off guard. Marianne laughed and tried to wriggle out of his embrace before the train left without her, but he didn’t quite let go until she reached down and patted his bottom. Giving him one last kiss, Marianne darted away, still laughing, while Alfred stared after her, blushing fiercely yet smiling like an idiot.
“What are truffles?”
While he walked back to the apartment, Alfred read over the Wikipedia article that Google pulled up, clicked on another link, then another, and ended up completely confused. Well, maybe she was talking about handmade chocolates, but maybe she was hinting that she liked to eat the mushrooms that are also called truffles. Maybe she meant chocolate covered mushrooms? He pondered this question, wondering how they even got into that subject while he was talking about his art classes, and decided he should try to ask her the next time he stopped by the café.
His classmates were eager to hear how his meeting with Marianne went, their given reason for bringing over a bottle of champagne this night: to toast to his success. Granted, all but one of them were underage and so they thought of reasons to toast everything, such as days ending in vowels.
“Tell us, tell us!” Texas shrieked. “Did she like the chocolates? Did you guys kiss?”
“Girl, everyone kisses everyone in France.”
“You know what I mean, French kissing!”
“She liked the chocolates,” Alfred said, grinning. “We walked around the city, talked a lot. And um, we didn’t kiss-kiss, but she kind of touched my butt a little.”
“You do have a nice, touchable butt. Firm, but slightly squishy. Four stars.”
Jersey immediately punched his boyfriend in the ribs, while Texas and Illinois made incomprehensible high-pitched squealing noises.
“Okay, whatever you do, don’t ask her if you guys are dating or together or anything like that,” D.C. said after the hubbub died down. “If you press her about the relationship, she’s going to think you’re British and there goes your chances.”
“But I am British, some generations back anyway…”
“All right, you can’t help that,” D.C. conceded. “But anyway, just be cool. Try to not get all clingy and stalkery. I heard that’s why she broke up with her last boyfriend. He’s an ice skater, you know.”
“Now you’re just making stuff up.” However, York’s comment about his butt suddenly came to mind, and Alfred glanced at his friends.
“Y-you guys don’t think I’m fat, do you?” he asked worriedly. “Should I work out more?”
“You’re not fat, Al!” Illinois insisted. “You’re huggable!”
“Who needs a supermodel boyfriend with a butt you can bounce quarters off anyway?”
Alfred bravely held his tears back, but mentally resolved to walk more and cut back (a little) on his beloved fried food.
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I like how you slipped the state-names in there. I'm not usually into state-tans but your OCs are hilarious and fit so well in the story!
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