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We talked about things, even though we didn't have much in common. We talked about dreams (the sleeping kind) and dreams (the future kind), the things that any two humans always have in common.I kept playing the guitar, trying to remember anything I could that would impress her. She wasn't impressed by Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath or Rush. Getting desperate, I tried the few riffs I knew of the normal radio fare. Every time I'd play the two bars I knew of the song, she'd look expectantly at me for the rest of the song, or ask me if I knew the words.Eventually I gave up trying to impress her and just farted around with chord progressions that I liked."That's pretty, what is it?" she asked.Thinking amazingly quickly for being neither on my feet nor having a full supply of blood to the brain I said "Oh, just something I made up."Her eyes lit up. "You wrote that?" Uh, yeah. I did," I ventured. It was true enough, I was just making it all up off the top of my head.She gave me the first. "This way," he said as they walked out of the cafe and made their way across the Champs Elysées dodging taxis and Citröens with equal abandon.As they walked a couple of small blocks, Alex took a few moments and pointed out some of the historical and trivial items of note. Samantha found herself paying close attention to what he was saying and the way he said it, occasionally laughing when he would slip in to a bad German accent and loving the lyrical nature of his French as he pointed out the places from World War II or of national or historic significance to the French or even an American abroad. She wondered where he was from. His French was accepted by the locals, an accomplishment she knew was not something a foreigner could generally do. He seemed perfectly at home here, but something about him made her think he was not a native. He had gone native but France was not where he was born, she was fairly certain."And here we are, Rue de Cerisoles, as promised. Your shop should be on.
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