Day 63: Love at the Rinse Cycle.

I woke up this morning feeling hungover from my night of excitement but I didn't have a drop to drink after our lunch. I was exhausted from being on a scooter for hours and fearing my life from drunk and aggravated Parisians trying to get home after the fireworks spectacular. On this sunny and cloudless day, Paris was a ghost town as most people have the Friday after Bastille Day off and were off in the country for a long weekend. I walked down to La Pearl for an allongee before stopping into work to sort out some last minute things before leaving. 
Allison, my colleague was the only one in the office who couldn't take the day off due to a project she was working on that had an immediate deadline. She took a break from her mound of paper work and treated me to a her homemade quacamole that she prepared the kitchen and brought in a mini bottle of champagne to toast to my future endeavors, whatever the hell they are. Allison had become a friend to me at work and was happy to share my last moments in the office with her. The office was quiet, just the sound of her keyboard and the occasional passing car in the otherwise desolate 16th filled the silence. It reminded me of walking through your high school at the end of June to pick up a book you left in your locker. Where only the sound of your foot steps against the linoleum combined with the hum from the fluorescents taints the air like a ghost. It always feels so final. 
I got home from my half day-turned into a full day as I had more to sort out than I had realized, took a bath and fell asleep. Hours later I woke up to the awful sound of my phone ringing. I never changed the 'Rodeo' default ring and is truly the most grating ring ever developed. You don't feel like you are at a 'Rodeo' like the name promises, you are in someones perception of what Texas must sound like. In 1985. The blaring continued and since I had not made any plans on this Summer's eve, I hit the ignore button and rolled over. A few minutes later, 80's Texas returned and being more awake than the first time, I picked it up and in a grog said hello. It was Monsieur Flaneur. Of course it was. 
He always seems to strike when its least expected, sort of like acne. He reminded me that he had Phil's keys and remembered that my sub-letter was coming on Sunday and wanted to pass Phil's keys on to me. That's right, well I had to seize this opportunity because who knows the next time I will be able to get him commit to something as selfless as passing keys on.
He showed up at my house an hour later and upon opening the door, I bombarded him with things that he was required to walk over to Phil's house for me. Laundry, a bag of toiletries and a pillow. He was foolishly planning on just dropping the keys off and leaving. Silly boy. He's part Italian like me, he should know better, guilt runs in our blood. He tried to tell me he was tired and was heading home in which I retorted 'You dumped me leaving me without an apartment when I wasn't working after making my life a living hell for three months because you didn't know how to end it. You can walk these things around the corner. Its the very least you can do.' Never did I imagine when I was learning French in my little Alliance Française classes in New York, that I would be using my verb conjugations for snarky sentences like this. My imagination definitely offered a more romantic setting. He obediently grabbed the bags and added that I was chiante while huffing down the stairs like a vieux. Ok, MF I accept as I followed behind him with exasperation. "I'm chiante, egoiste, connasse, insupportable, quoi d'autre?" I helped him with the list of all the horrible things I am.
6 minutes later we arrived at Phil's house where we were sorted through his mail. Because Phil shares a mailbox with the next door gallery, the box is jam packed with mail that is mostly not his. Talk about chiant. We sorted through at least 200 pieces of mail and only two ended up being for him. The light in the hallway kept going off as we were trying to get through the mail and must admit that I got comic relief from the shadow of MF trying to find the censor with flailing hands and the elegant little creature that he is, cursing everything from hell to high water in the dark while practically doing jumping jacks. He is going to be such a crotchety old man.
We got into Phil's house, set everything down and opened some windows to air out his closed up apartment. I prepared a drink for MF to sip on while he kept me company while I sorted my darks and whites for laundry the following day. I was blissfully organizing my laundry and looking at clothes I forgot I had when I did a double take at MF of him looking at me with a smirk on his face. Oh geez, I know this smirk. This smirk used to magically remove clothing but now this face resulted in me asking "What's your face?". He continued with his face while holding back giggling. "Why did you want me to come to Phil's house?" he asked suspiciously while trying to what I can only assume was flirting. Oh MF, that ship has sailed. After the few months of complete merde that I have been through, its going to take a little more than a sip of vodka, dirty laundry and a sultry stare to get me physically interested. "You got me, I brought you here because I was planning on seducing you. Right here. You see, I'm not sorting laundry, I'm creating a make shift bed. Right here on the kitchen floor. Just give me a minute to move my period stained panties to the side and we can get this party started." I said coldly while returning to my sorting. He scoffed at me with squinted eyes and said "You can't resist saying something annoying, can you?" I laughed. "You can't resist being annoying. That's worse." I said remembering and loving the fact that he always set himself up for my retaliation. We both looked at each and smiled. After everything we have been through, we can still dish it out and I miss that. Its going to be hard to replace each other. It takes most guys a while to realize that I am not a wretched horrible bitch who speaks like a truck driver, just imagine it in French, its nails on a blackboard to most. I'm just an Italian New Yorker and MF having the same impulsive character defaults as me, never had a problem adjusting and got a kick out of our banter.
I truly don't see us ever getting back together, too much has happened but I do miss talking with him. Despite his ridiculous and hasty demeanor, the connection is still there and perhaps always will be. I know the right person is out there and there was a reason for our break-up but it's moments like these that make me wonder. At this point, looking forward is my only option.