together. And despite how badly he hurt you, you may still love him so much you can actually feel your heart breaking without him.
Stay strong though, ladies, and don’t make that call. Remember that millions of other women have been in your shoes, and they’ve gotten through it, so you will too.
Six
vendredi, le premier octobre
French men aren’t like American men—they still like us after we cry.
I rolled over in my bed and pried my eyes open. The red lights on my alarm clock were flashing noon.
Noon! I’d missed my appointment. Shit, shit, shit.
After I’d hung up with Katie, I’d set my alarm for six-thirty a.m., but I didn’t even remember hearing it go off. I checked the stupid clock to see if it had malfunctioned. No, the alarm was still set for six-thirty. In my half-drunken state, I must’ve turned it off. I had no recollection of doing that though. I never, ever missed appointments. What in the hell was going on with me?
I jumped out of bed and fumbled through my unpacked suitcases to find my acceptance letter—the only piece of paper that had any sort of contact number on it. I dialed and got through to a program assistant who gave me Madame Rousseau’s number.
As her phone was ringing, I thought about telling her that my plane had been delayed, or that I’d been hit by a car, or anything so that this woman still liked me. I needed her to help me get a job in Paris after this year was over, and I definitely wasn’t starting off on the right foot.
“ Allô? ”she answered.
“ Bonjour, Madame Rousseau? C’est Charlotte Summers— ”
I couldn’t even get another word out because she stopped me short and let me know that she was not happy, not by any stretch of the imagination. She didn’t even give me a chance to make up a fake excuse. After rambling on in French about how she hated when students wasted her time, and about how rude and unprofessional my behavior was, she did at least set up another appointment with me for the following Tuesday at the same time. She made sure to tell me that I better be early.
This was the woman I’d be relying on to help me find a teaching job in Paris?
I got out my planner and made a note to leave two hours early for the appointment. Wasting Madame Rousseau’s time was not something I would ever do again, not after that phone call.
After an entire day of mentally berating myself for being such an idiot, I finally gave up on the self-loathing and went back to bed.
***
Going through a break-up is hard enough, but trying to muddle through it in a foreign city where I didn’t have any of my closest friends nearby to distract me was proving to be more trying than I had thought it would be.
It was my fifth morning in Paris, and, as I glanced at the clock and saw that it was already noon, I realized I still had not even begun to adjust to the time change. The last few days had been a blur of staying up late at night, sleeping for a few hours, waking up again, calling home, and then sleeping again for half the day. I was hoping that by today or this weekend at the very least, I would be able to sleep through the night and wake up at a decent hour.
I rolled over in my bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. The truth was that besides being a physical wreck, I also felt sadder than I could ever remember feeling in my entire life. I missed Jeff so much I could hardly breathe sometimes. Mostly, I missed waking up with him in the mornings. Whenever the alarm went off, he would wrap his strong arms around me and bundle me up into his chest so that I never wanted to get out of bed.
But, as I lay painfully alone in my bed that morning, the thought that I would never again wake to see Jeff’s face next to mine on the pillow was devastating. What was crushing me even more though was the thought that he had so carelessly thrown our love away to have sex with another girl. And that she was the one who probably saw his face every morning
Stay strong though, ladies, and don’t make that call. Remember that millions of other women have been in your shoes, and they’ve gotten through it, so you will too.
Six
vendredi, le premier octobre
French men aren’t like American men—they still like us after we cry.
I rolled over in my bed and pried my eyes open. The red lights on my alarm clock were flashing noon.
Noon! I’d missed my appointment. Shit, shit, shit.
After I’d hung up with Katie, I’d set my alarm for six-thirty a.m., but I didn’t even remember hearing it go off. I checked the stupid clock to see if it had malfunctioned. No, the alarm was still set for six-thirty. In my half-drunken state, I must’ve turned it off. I had no recollection of doing that though. I never, ever missed appointments. What in the hell was going on with me?
I jumped out of bed and fumbled through my unpacked suitcases to find my acceptance letter—the only piece of paper that had any sort of contact number on it. I dialed and got through to a program assistant who gave me Madame Rousseau’s number.
As her phone was ringing, I thought about telling her that my plane had been delayed, or that I’d been hit by a car, or anything so that this woman still liked me. I needed her to help me get a job in Paris after this year was over, and I definitely wasn’t starting off on the right foot.
“ Allô? ”she answered.
“ Bonjour, Madame Rousseau? C’est Charlotte Summers— ”
I couldn’t even get another word out because she stopped me short and let me know that she was not happy, not by any stretch of the imagination. She didn’t even give me a chance to make up a fake excuse. After rambling on in French about how she hated when students wasted her time, and about how rude and unprofessional my behavior was, she did at least set up another appointment with me for the following Tuesday at the same time. She made sure to tell me that I better be early.
This was the woman I’d be relying on to help me find a teaching job in Paris?
I got out my planner and made a note to leave two hours early for the appointment. Wasting Madame Rousseau’s time was not something I would ever do again, not after that phone call.
After an entire day of mentally berating myself for being such an idiot, I finally gave up on the self-loathing and went back to bed.
***
Going through a break-up is hard enough, but trying to muddle through it in a foreign city where I didn’t have any of my closest friends nearby to distract me was proving to be more trying than I had thought it would be.
It was my fifth morning in Paris, and, as I glanced at the clock and saw that it was already noon, I realized I still had not even begun to adjust to the time change. The last few days had been a blur of staying up late at night, sleeping for a few hours, waking up again, calling home, and then sleeping again for half the day. I was hoping that by today or this weekend at the very least, I would be able to sleep through the night and wake up at a decent hour.
I rolled over in my bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. The truth was that besides being a physical wreck, I also felt sadder than I could ever remember feeling in my entire life. I missed Jeff so much I could hardly breathe sometimes. Mostly, I missed waking up with him in the mornings. Whenever the alarm went off, he would wrap his strong arms around me and bundle me up into his chest so that I never wanted to get out of bed.
But, as I lay painfully alone in my bed that morning, the thought that I would never again wake to see Jeff’s face next to mine on the pillow was devastating. What was crushing me even more though was the thought that he had so carelessly thrown our love away to have sex with another girl. And that she was the one who probably saw his face every morning
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