But first, I write on my Stories over said picture,lunch at this fabulous spot. If you’re not drinking fine wine on a terrace, are you even in Paris?
No need to respond to the text; I’m sure Brianna will check my Insta in no time. She’s not the one who needs to see this anyway.
When I look up, Olivier is eagerly waving at me to come over. Next to him, the hostess eyes me up and down, and I suddenly feel naked. I mean, we’re basically dressed the same, except her gold sandals have low heels and her lipstick shade is a little lighter than mine. Plus her hair is tousled in a way that makes it look like she woke up like this, even though there’s absolutely no way she woke up like this.
I glance down at my outfit. Okay, so maybe I don’texactlylook like her, but hey, one of us works at a restaurant and the other has all the money in the world to eat here. That’s right, bitch. Olivier may look fancy and all butI’mfooting the bill. I’m the one who has everything she ever wanted. Maybe noteverything. Still, I lift my chin up and follow him to our table. The hostess slams two menus down before we’re even seated and immediately walks away.
“What’s her problem?” I say.
Olivier shrugs. “She’s just…” He thinks about it for a moment. “French. Actually, she’s Parisian.”
I wait for a further explanation but that was it. Our server comes by with a bread basket and a jug of water, then says something I don’t understand. Olivier responds. In French. I mean, obviously. It’s just that I’ve never heard him speak French before today, and it feels weird. Rude, even. Almost like they’re talking about me behind my back, but in front of me. I stareat him, once again expecting he’ll clue me in. He stares back as the server hovers over me, shifting from one foot to the other. I sigh, try to focus on the menu, which, thankfully, is translated.
But it still feels foreign. I knew about croque monsieur, but croque madame? And what even is “Poilâne” bread? Maybe it doesn’t matter. Isn’t bread just bread? To be honest, I’m dying for a burger, but I don’t see one listed.
“You order first,” I tell Olivier.
“I already did,” he says.
See what I mean? Rude.
“Do you need help?” he asks now.
“I’m fine!” I scan the menu one more time. I don’t know what I want. At home, lunch often means leftovers, the last slice of pizza eaten straight from the box. (Why waste a clean plate.)
Feeling Olivier and the server’s eyes firmly on me, I let out a frustrated sigh and point at the most expensive item on the menu. “I’ll have the beef fillet,” I say. A spasm crosses Olivier’s face. It annoys me way more than the server’s obvious smirk. “And a glass of white wine. The best you have.”
There’s an awkward silence that goes on for way too long, and I’m tempted to ask what the hell is going on. The server and Olivier exchange a glance and, finally, my husband speaks. “Red wine goes with beef. Usually.”
“Really?” I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I should have known that. Honestly, what I really want is an ice-cold beer, but after I mentioned wine on my Stories, it occurred to me that that’s what a chic Parisienne would drink. Plus, I feel like that should be my next picture.
The server suppresses a smile, but not very well.
I feel my cheeks go flush. “Red, yes. That’s what I meant. The best you have. And a side of french fries.” I say, handing back the menu.
“The beef fillet comes with potatoes, madame,” the server says.
“Can’t I have french fries?”
“House fries coming up.” The server walks away but Olivier still has that tight look on his face.
“What?” I say sharply.
“The beef fillet…?”
“What?” I insist.
He shrugs. “No one orders the most expensive item on the menu.”
“I can order whatever I want.”
“Of course, I…”
“This is supposed to be my honeymoon,” I cut in. I feel like a petulant child. I know I sound like one too, but I’m speaking the truth.
“Right.” And then in a lowered voice, “And mine too.”
I don’t respond. For a while, the only sound at our table comes from his leg jittering under, making the cutlery rattle. I check my phone, subtly at first and then openly because who cares if I’m on my phone anyway. No new messages. No comments. No signs. Olivier picks up the small pot of butter from the bread basket and slathers it thickly on a piece of baguette. He shoves it a little too deep into his mouth, like he’s trying to stop himself from saying something else.
