the pretty one and the bastard

The French girl is either in an open relationship or dating a bastard. In a conspiratorial whisper out second time hanging out, he told me about girl he had "fucked at a party" the week before. The French lady was just outside the wine bar, smoking a cigarette. I laughed and took a gulp of my Vinho Verde. This is the thing. In the words of singular Andre 3000, I "could be an organ donor the way I give out my heart." And I've definitely given the French woman my heart. Not that I would let her hold it exclusively. Well, maybe if she insisted. She's gorgeous of course. She looks a little like this, only prettier and more elegant, more French. (Try not to think too hard on what I was doing with those pictures. It's unsavory... But back to the matter at hand.) She speaks with that lilting accent that lets you know she's only been in New York a few months. And she's sharp. Ooh, I wouldn't wanna cross that one. Everytime I see her and hear her laugh, my heart does a few stanzas of some marching band anthem. And because no amour of mine would be perfect without this, I can see nerves of steel and a righteous temper behind that laugh she deploys ever so ever so often.

Of course, there is the French bastard to deal with in all of this. That's right, he's French too. I met them both at one of those funky ol' parties in Brooklyn. And if not for the fact that he possesses what I desire, I might even like him. After all, he would be a perfect replacement for my current wingman. He's exotic, French, knows his women and obviously knows his way around women. We'd probably be good foils for each other too, his grace and light movement a contrast with my booming and boisterous presence when I've got my mojo going.

Anyway, my old wingman told me not to bother. He immediately thought they were together, while I took my time believing I could be so unlucky. And I've been flirting with her. In fact, I was at my flirtiest and best dressed when she met me. And she loves to dance. With me. Pah! Always the best man, never the groom. It is yet another indictment on my moral character that I'm not a man around whom one should leave their girlfriend. And though I've recently learned some hard lessons in regards to that mode of behavior, I can't help but try here. After all, he is having his fun. Why can't she and I have some? More to come, more to come...