“Will you meet him?” she asks.
“Nope. Nor will I meet my mom’s third cousin’s Guangzhou-born nephew, now a certified accountant in London.”
She knits her eyebrows. “Why not? You might like one of them.”
“I’ve seen their photos.”
“And?”
“I didn’t like them.”
She tut-tuts. “How callous of you!”
“Not at all! I just know my taste in men well enough to not waste anyone’s time on a relationship doomed in advance.”
“Fair enough.”
We browse some more.
I dig out a hideous denim jacket with embroidered roses. “Intriguing, isn’t it?”
“Very Madonna circa 1986.”
I toss the jacket onto the counter for safekeeping.
Denise turns to me. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what exactly did you put in your application letter toWed at First Sight?”
“I kept a copy of it,” I say, rummaging for my phone. “Figured you’d be curious.”
“Good thinking!”
“Hang on.” I unlock the phone, find the letter, and scroll down. I read it out in a dramatically low voice:
He can be any color, ethnicity, or race except Asian. He must be a tattooed bohemian, artistically inclined, and allergic to formal wear. Skinny jeans and slim-fit T-shirts are ideal along with hoodies and other informal styles. Bonus points if he’s on welfare.
Denise dissolves into laughter, clutching the counter for support.
“Oh, God.” She wipes her eyes. “You wrote that to spite your parents, didn’t you?”
I shrug. “They harassed my hot boyfriend into dumping me so they could set me up with a pear-shaped dentist.”
“But he’s half-Chinese,” she points out, stifling a smile. “And financially stable.”
“I don’t give a shit. They need to be taught a lesson, Denise! I’m going to marry their worst nightmare.”
“Isn’t that a tad OTT, not to say cruel?”
“Maybe. But this monster,”—I prod my chest—“is their own creation. They had it coming.”
Denise puts a hand on my shoulder. “Laura Yang, whatever you do, you’ll always have my friendship and support.”
“Even if I marry a drifter with face tattoos?”
“Always.”
On that uplifting note, she heads to the changing rooms. I grab the velvet dress and denim jacket and follow her.
With our shopping done,Denise and I find a sunny spot on a terrace at Odéon. Our table is way too small, and the chairs wobble, but it’s OK because we caught the tail end of happy hour. On top of that, we have a perfect view of the Boulevard Saint Germain with its nonstop parade of fashionistas, students, tourists, and all manner of weirdos.
