“As in, never working,” George quipped.
“Something like that.” He winked in my direction, and I noticed a small gap in his front teeth.
“What do you do?” I asked.
Christophe laughed. “That’s such an American question. What doyoudo?”
I blushed. “I’m a lawyer.”
“Entertainment lawyer,” Connor jumped in.
Cristophe looked amused. “But what about when you’re not at your job?”
It was an embarrassingly tough question. “Mental note, get a hobby,” I joked.
“It’s just that my experience of Americans is they are very one-dimensional,” he said, his French accent making it sound even more condescending.
Connor feigned offense on my behalf. “And in my experience, that’s a very French point of view.”
I tried to come up with an answer that wasn’t lame. “I work out, I watch movies ... pretty standard fare,” I said, feeling even more boring than when I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“You go to a bar with your friends,” he added. I had a feeling Christophe was having more fun than any of us.
“I wasdraggedto a bar,” I corrected him.
“What would you be doing otherwise?” he probed. His eyes were intense in a way that felt like he could see underneath my clothes.
Connor jumped in. “Okay, lad, call off the interrogation.”
I stood there silently as the group caught up. I eventually noticed everyone’s drink was mostly empty, including mine. “I’ll get the next round,” I offered, looking for a chance to break away.
Christophe jumped up. “I’ll help you.”
Connor tapped his shoulder. “No funny business.”
Christophe was a head taller than me, which proved helpful in getting the bartender’s attention. He pulled out a barstool for me while we waited.
“I wasn’t trying to be an asshole back there. I just feel like Americans love to hide behind their work.”
“I’m not hiding behind anything. I’ve got my dream job,” I responded defensively.
I noticed Connor across the room, waiting for me to return a thumbs-up.
“But there’s more to life than work.” He smiled, and I realized he had a dimple on one side. “After this drink, come to a reading with me.”
I handed my card to the bartender. “Come again?”
“A poetry reading. A friend from Paris is hosting it in her apartment in the East Village.”
I laughed at how European it sounded.
“Are you trying to curate a hobby for me? The one-dimensional American?”
“I just think we can spice up this night a little bit. What do you say? Have you ever heard Sappho read out loud? In French?”
I hadn’t read Sappho in English. “That’s the reading?”
“They’re reading Anne Le Fèvre Dacier’s translation. It’s more beautiful in French.”
