George W is a wise man: “There’s an old saying in Tennessee — I know it’s in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can’t get fooled again.”
Despite knowing about Bouche’s propensity for kissing floating mouths rather than people, I continued to hang out with him on a semi-regular basis. I truly believed I was no longer infatuated with him. We had good conversations, he was interesting, and easy on the eyes – why not spend time with him?
And so, after accepting a few of his invitations, I invited him to come join some of my friends for drinks one day. Which he did, accompanied by his younger brother.
Different body part, similar concept
Like any successful night out at a pub, drinks were being guzzled, conversation was flowing, contentment was palpable. My friends seemed to like him and his bro, and vice versa. I was happy: I enjoy when my worlds collide successfully. I love my friends dearly – so seeing different groups of friends meet and take to each other feels a bit like Christmas, like the spreading of warm fuzzy feelings.
In the midst of all these warm fuzzy feelings, Bouche, sitting next to me, took my hand, and intertwined his fingers with mine. Unexpected and interesting. He then put his other hand on my thigh, and voilà. We were cuddling in a pub. His brother, watching us, seemed slightly taken aback at Bouche’s assertiveness.
My friend, Blond ‘Fro, aware of the Bouche saga, took me aside, and asked me what was I doing, encouraging Bouche. I pointed out I wasn’t encouraging – I merely was not putting up any resistance; I definitely wasn’t falling for Bouche again, and Bouche was, unbeknownst to himself, going home alone that night. Blond ‘Fro was skeptical. He suggested I teach Bouche a lesson: I should tell him I was pregnant.
There were a few too many beers in me at that moment to be able to point out the biological flaw in Blond ‘Fro’s logic. I just nodded, and went back to my seat, where Bouche’s groping continued.
The non-pregnant lesson
Eventually, it was time to leave, and everyone said their goodbyes. Once outside, Bouche and his brother headed north, and I started off in the opposite direction.
Bouche asked me where I was going. “Home.” But why? “Because I am tipsy, it is 2am and I am tired and freezing.”
Bouche suggested enthusiastically: “Mais viens-t’en chez nous!” (*) His brother, standing nearby, stopped shivering, and looked at us with some interest. I waited in silence to see just how glamorous the impending invitation would turn out…
“Mon lit est super comfortable.” (**) Spoken with no trace of irony – that was his best sales pitch. His brother did not look impressed.
Unwilling to shatter the beautiful silence upon which his romantic words hung in the freezing night, I laughed, turned on my heels, and walked away. To go home. To my (presumably) equally comfortable bed; alone, but with my dignity intact.
And so ends my Bouche saga, the perfect of example of George W Bush’s sage words: you can’t get fooled again!
(*) “But, come over to our place!”
(**) “My bed is super comfortable“