The Love of My Life Is Hiding In: Paris

I’m in Paris and I’m pretty sure the love of my life is here, too.

His name is Etienne or Henri or something else that only sounds good in a French accent, and he wears a man-bun that I love to hate. He might not want kids but he owns his favorite book in every language (he got them from each country he’s visited, obviously). He’s the still pull out my chair and always (ALWAYS) take out the trash kind of traditional, but could be found cooking dinner on a rare night. Of course, I won’t eat it. I don’t like his cooking.

He paints or sings or writes but he’s also good at Math and would change the oil if we owned a car. My mom likes him but the faint odor of cigarette smoke in his hair makes her sneeze, and Paris always mimics his accent, and Uncle B thinks his hair is too feminine. No one wants him on their team at game night because of the language barrier, except Aunt Lenora because she’s just too nice. But then she drinks a little too much and yells at him for making them lose.

My eating habits annoy him because he’s annoyingly healthy. Maybe even a vegetarian. (Seriously, I hate this guy’s cooking.) Maybe he even convinces me to go jogging with him some mornings, but mostly he just reminds me too often that he’s going to outlive me.

We won’t get married until we’re 60, after we’ve seen every city twice, and split up three times, and gotten back together because every other partner we find isn’t weird enough or free enough or (in his case) bald enough. And we’ll retire in whatever city my sister is in so that I can be around my niece(s) and/or nephew(s), but spend every summer in the south of France because, well, it’s the south of freaking France.

So here’s to the future love of my love that I have 4 and half more days to find.

Wish me luck, y’all.

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