Leaving Madeleine - Part 12
My pie was blueberry. Brigitte had apple crumble à la mode. I don't remember what Patrick ate, though I am pretty sure it was cake.
We talked about actors and actresses. About Ethan Hawke. About Sydney Lumet. About movies. Two hours flew by without a lull in the conversation. Brigitte had an impressive knowledge of film, rivaling my own. I admired her fondness of the Coen brothers and forgave her for worshiping David Lynch. My past as an actor and director impressed her and she made me promise to show her some of my work. When the conversation turned to music we found our tastes to be equally eclectic, crossing paths in the middle with Nina Simone and Serge Gainsbourg and dividing somewhere on the outer spectrum with underground hip hop for me and what can perhaps best be described as experimental trip hop for her. Her ethnicity was a mix of Chinese on her father's side and Cambodian and East Indian on her mother's side. Her parents had moved to Hong Kong just before the Khmer Rouge took over and then retired to Malaysia. She, however, stayed in Hong Kong working freelance as an illustrator. She was visiting a relative in Paris for a few months to brush up her French. She spoke two other languages fluently, Cantonese and the Queen's English, and spoke enough Mandarin to get ripped off in mainland China. It's fair to say I was smitten within the first four minutes of talking to her, and a total goner by the time we paid the cheque.
"Are we done?" asked Brigitte.
"Ready when you are," Patrick said.
"I have to go to the little girls' room first."
"You mean to powder your nose?" I interjected.
"No. I mean to pee."
I nodded awkwardly. I shouldn't have asked. She left for the washroom. Patrick pulled his chair closer to mine.
"Wow," he said.
"Yeah," I responded. "Quite the girl."
"No, I mean-"
"Where'd you meet her?"
"At a party. I think for Bacardi or something."
"Hmm."
"So what is this?" Patrick came out with it.
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. What are you doing?" He was gentle with it, not accusatory.
"I don't know." It was true, I didn't.
"Well listen Evan, I really like this girl..."
"Yeah. She's very likeable."
"And you know, I am not saying anything - I mean about Madeleine. That's your business."
"I appreciate that."
"But I am just saying, yunno, if I, or if something happens between me and Brigitte, I don't want that to-"
"Yeah Pat. Don't worry about it. I'm sorry, man. I didn't see this coming at all. A few years ago I could've probably let it pass. But now, you know, I feel like I'm at that age where, I mean, not to be crude, but I just feel it's got to be may the best man win, yunno?"
"Yeah. Good. That's good."
The truth was, I really liked Patrick and he was one of the last guys in the world I wanted to be in this circumstance with. But it felt like the universe had turned against him in regards to Brigitte. Sparks had flown between us and more were on the way. I could feel it. I no longer believed in love at first sight, but what was happening between us was undeniable, tangible even. We weren't in love, but we could be. And we both knew it. I thought those feelings had left with adolescence, but here they were, staring me in the face and daring me to take the risk.
Brigitte returned to the table. "Ready."
"Let's go," Patrick said to no one in particular.
We talked about actors and actresses. About Ethan Hawke. About Sydney Lumet. About movies. Two hours flew by without a lull in the conversation. Brigitte had an impressive knowledge of film, rivaling my own. I admired her fondness of the Coen brothers and forgave her for worshiping David Lynch. My past as an actor and director impressed her and she made me promise to show her some of my work. When the conversation turned to music we found our tastes to be equally eclectic, crossing paths in the middle with Nina Simone and Serge Gainsbourg and dividing somewhere on the outer spectrum with underground hip hop for me and what can perhaps best be described as experimental trip hop for her. Her ethnicity was a mix of Chinese on her father's side and Cambodian and East Indian on her mother's side. Her parents had moved to Hong Kong just before the Khmer Rouge took over and then retired to Malaysia. She, however, stayed in Hong Kong working freelance as an illustrator. She was visiting a relative in Paris for a few months to brush up her French. She spoke two other languages fluently, Cantonese and the Queen's English, and spoke enough Mandarin to get ripped off in mainland China. It's fair to say I was smitten within the first four minutes of talking to her, and a total goner by the time we paid the cheque.
"Are we done?" asked Brigitte.
"Ready when you are," Patrick said.
"I have to go to the little girls' room first."
"You mean to powder your nose?" I interjected.
"No. I mean to pee."
I nodded awkwardly. I shouldn't have asked. She left for the washroom. Patrick pulled his chair closer to mine.
"Wow," he said.
"Yeah," I responded. "Quite the girl."
"No, I mean-"
"Where'd you meet her?"
"At a party. I think for Bacardi or something."
"Hmm."
"So what is this?" Patrick came out with it.
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. What are you doing?" He was gentle with it, not accusatory.
"I don't know." It was true, I didn't.
"Well listen Evan, I really like this girl..."
"Yeah. She's very likeable."
"And you know, I am not saying anything - I mean about Madeleine. That's your business."
"I appreciate that."
"But I am just saying, yunno, if I, or if something happens between me and Brigitte, I don't want that to-"
"Yeah Pat. Don't worry about it. I'm sorry, man. I didn't see this coming at all. A few years ago I could've probably let it pass. But now, you know, I feel like I'm at that age where, I mean, not to be crude, but I just feel it's got to be may the best man win, yunno?"
"Yeah. Good. That's good."
The truth was, I really liked Patrick and he was one of the last guys in the world I wanted to be in this circumstance with. But it felt like the universe had turned against him in regards to Brigitte. Sparks had flown between us and more were on the way. I could feel it. I no longer believed in love at first sight, but what was happening between us was undeniable, tangible even. We weren't in love, but we could be. And we both knew it. I thought those feelings had left with adolescence, but here they were, staring me in the face and daring me to take the risk.
Brigitte returned to the table. "Ready."
"Let's go," Patrick said to no one in particular.
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