Oh, Racetrack. You’ll always be Galactica’s prettiest pilot.
Alice Taglioni in Ca$h (2008, dir. Eric Besnard)
Last summer’s brief but intense association with a French woman has left me particularly susceptible to the charms of French women. Who’d have thunk it? Surely this is relatively common phenomena. There must be young men all over the Anglosphere struck by this sort of thing.
I remember a certain moment where she just sort of nodded, and took on this look of total serenity. I wish I had told her that she was beautiful when I had the chance, at worst it would’ve seemed like I was just caught up in it all; while if I did so now it’d just seem like some trite and cynical attempt to recreate what once was.
But, hey, it’s all fun and games, right?
I realised today that every time I’ve admitted to fancying a girl (in that ‘Holding hands, feeding ducks’ way of fancying someone, as opposed to that ‘It’s 3 am and it’s either you or a kebab’ way of fancying someone), it later comes out that they had no idea I was interested in them.
Am I really that difficult to read?
Is this one of those questions I probably don’t want to hear the answer to?
You fucking bet.
I found myself sitting at the bar, waiting for her because she was running late - caught between a torrential downpour and a dodgy taxi driver. Somewhere along the way, because I was annoyed about the weather or absent-mindedly checking my phone or because I badly craved a cigarette, the bar staff seemed to take my less than jovial demeanour as a sign I’d turn out to be that sad bastard drinking himself into a stupor by himself on a Saturday night, and they gave me a wide berth.
When she finally arrived, belated, profusely apologetic and wearing that dress, the quality of service suddenly improved dramatically.
Funny that.
Astrud Gilberto - The Girl from Impanema
I’m looking forward to summer, and all that comes with it.
