There is nothing like a very impromptu lunch date with the one you love to immediately lift your mood and warm your heart on a cold November day in Paris.
After a brief 11am phone call with a client in London, I realized that as my 3pm client from Toronto had emailed me overnight to ask to cancel and reschedule our meeting, I had the afternoon virtually free! The ready enthusiasm with which my IM to Georges -- "Are you perhaps free for lunch today? I could meet you at the statue at Place de la Sorbonne by about 12h30" -- was greeted was enough to put me in the proper festive frame of mind and had me positively floating to the bus stop.
Seven weeks into our LONG (ha!) relationship, my heart continues to skip a beat each time I see him again after even a brief absence. I could say that it is knowing of our pending long separation that is heightening our craving to spend time together -- and perhaps that is a small part of it, and we are booking every moment together that we can manage to compensate for the time apart -- but the truth is, we've been this way since the beginning, and it hasn't abated one iota. In fact, it only grows stronger.
I am rounding the corner to the Place de la Sorbonne, hurrying, my eyes scanning the crowd -- and there he is. WHAM! My heart does its usual leaps and cartwheels. There is my man. MY man. He is so handsome, and even more wonderful on the inside. I am so proud of who he is, and proud to fly into his arms for a kiss. NOW it is a good day.
So, a few minutes later, we are comfortably seated in a little side-street brasserie off blvd. Saint Michel, and Georges is just LOOKING at me with THAT LOOK. It is the look that needs no words, the look that tells me in no uncertain terms how he feels about me (not that the words aren't also nice to hear, of course, and we use the words often). I am sure I am looking at him the same way. We are giddy, like teenagers. 46 and 53-year old teenagers, respectively. It is crazy, heady stuff; is it even legal? Georges keeps having small near-accidents at the table, knocking his fork to the floor and nearly upsetting the carafe d'eau and a wine glass... he is just so happy for us to be together like this, so unexpectedly, that (as he says it) his brain has gone elsewhere for the moment.
How can I not love, with all my heart and soul, a man who looks at me like that, and who makes my eyes well up with love every time he does it? How did I ever get so lucky, to be loved like this? I still can't believe it sometimes.
After we finish our very nice lunch with very good service (wish I could tell you which brasserie it was, but of course I forgot to notice the name), we decide to browse in the Gibert Joseph store for a while, where I picked up a copy of Jane Austen's Emma for the plane ride to the States, and Stephen Clarke's Talk to the Snail: Ten Commandments for Understanding the French which looks hysterically funny, and which I am sure will provide Georges and I with some good laughs at the cultural comparisons. Then, it's time to go back to the real world again. He walks me to the bus stop, pointing out where his office is located on the way; he has a nice view from his window, I think.
As the bus pulls away, I put my hand to the window to symbolically reach for him again. We smile at each other. I take a seat at the back, watching him walk to cross Saint Michel, getting that one last glimpse before the bus rounds the corner. Finally, I turn back around and gaze out the window, eyes filled once again with tears of complete joy. I'd blame it on PMS but this goes on all the time these days, the happy tears. I just can't seem to contain my emotions and they have no choice but to find a way out through my eyes.
Back at my place later in the afternoon, I read a few paragraphs of Clarke's book, and laughing, IM Georges to share an observation about something that reminded me of our first date. His reply makes me ROAR with laughter; he totally gets it. Then I said: I adore you, and I adore your French-ness. You know, to let him know that while I may tease him, it is his French-ness that is a part of who he is, and what I love about him. It's all part of the same wonderful package, one that is more precious to me than any gift I could ever receive.
As I am typing this, he phones me while he is walking to the métro on his way home, just to ask how I am doing, to let me know he is "with" me in thought. We talk about nothing special: him being with the kids when he gets home, cooking dinner, etc. I say he must be reading my mind as I have been thinking about him, too, AND blogging about him. He says "Oh-HO!" and laughs as he tries to imagine what I might have written this time, but says he is not inquiet about it at all. His love is evident in how he has trusted me from the beginning, to write as I choose about us.
Thinking about our lovely afternoon lunch and book-store browse, I realize it: even if I can't be with him much this month, to be loved by Georges -- MY Georges -- is all I want or need this Christmas. His love for me is the perfect size, fit, quantity and quality. It will never be broken or need to be sent back to the manufacturer. It will never wear out or lose its lustrous glow. It will never go out of style. And it makes me want to give my love back to him, every moment of every day.
And this, this deep and unconditional love from this amazing, loving man, I know I already have.
