I’m lying on a chaise lounge on the terrace of the Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo. Surrounding me are chic European men and women, gauche American insurance salesmen and their ill-at-ease wives. I’m 36 years old, reading today’s issue of the French newspaper Le Figaro, basking in almost perfect bliss. (You encountered me in this same spot, on the same day, in Toying.)
Except.
Except that I’m thirsty.
He smiles at me, shrugs his shoulders and says, “Ah, even when we were in college she was buttoned down. My best buddy said, ‘Your girlfriend makes my old grannie look wild.’ That’s what she was then, and that’s sure what my wife is now.’”
That’s what makes me do it, makes me break my rule. Never be provocative, never flirt, never cross that boundary. He’s married, I’m not. My rule is to absolutely ignore the chemistry between us.
But he’s laid down a challenge. I can’t help myself. His wife is conventional, unadventurous. I’m anything but. He just doesn’t know it. Yet.