play another slow one, sammy

three of them to choose from. "l'exotique," "the sexy one," and "the nice guy." i was closest to the prior, and slightly offended at the MC's title for him, so it was to the exotic, whose name i forget, that i extended my hand. we swayed under the disco ball that bathed us in such delicious light that all spectators surely watched with trance-like attention. but i wouldn't know. because this was our dance, and i could no longer even hear the quebecois singing along to the cheezy number that was playing. he held me tight. i wiped away my fake tears. he howled in mourning. i'd finally found my quebecois to marry (for citizenship), too late. it was the last dance . . . and i'd be leaving in two weeks.

so goes the story, the offering of three, and the public display of embarrassment for the american intern. this was my last fling with k*no--the final monthly screening i would attend, and my last attempt at seducing a quebecois from that large pool of ready and willing. genevieve gave me a bouquet of flowers; nathalie handed me a drink voucher; hugo spoke to me in his broken english one more time, still presuming it was better than my highly-accented french.

that slow number playing was a bright memory, but yesterday, with France's election results [where did the tone of this blog just go?], sammy started playing a little ditty in a very minor chord. Crazy Sarko won, and the riots have already begun in the banlieue.

end scene.