You know, sitting across from me at the posh restaurant you insisted on taking me to lunch, and constantly iterating that you think I'm so mignonne is not going to take you very far in my respect for you, nor in our friendship. The word beautiful isn't any higher up the ladder, and in fact, I was expecting more than skin deep from the discussions we'd had before.
Maybe it was nerves, knowing that I was there to do you a favour that you needed so badly, but I expected more from you.
I don't care what you think of what I look like. That, in fact, is my general sentiment on the subject.
In fact, that sort of thing only really counts in intimacy, and that's a whole different ballgame, isn't it?
Once we got to work, though, the day shifted.
He stepped back, this time, and let me work. He talked too much but let me ignore him and listen when I needed to. Eight more solid hours, but this time we drilled through all thirty five pages, and he even let me add a few sections, modify a few chapters. It was an experience in my own professional conduct, one that I can't have too many of.
At some point, I was pointing out something he'd missed and he said "how can you possibly know that?" and I said "well, from my experience..."
And to make a long story short, the real compliment that he had been trying so hard to pay earlier was all there in his
"how old are you again? Nobody should have a head like yours at your age."
And the inherent elitism and ageism and whatever, none of it matters. It was sincere enough to pause the mad clatter of my too-long nails on the keyboard.
We spoke of a thousand other things, on tiny breaks betwixt incomprehensible streams of backwards english, polygamy and tattoos and Israelis and racism and what he hates about France.
I eventually got tired of choosing my words so carefully and just pointed out that he's wasting an awful lot of enegy on hate.
To his credit, he thought for a moment, then nodded, rather then tear me a new piercing.
Again the compliment. Again the "I'm not accustomed to learning things from young ladies half my age."
That pause is why I'm letting him take me and Cristal to see Mozart's Requiem on Sunday afternoon. At the Eglise St-Louis, on Ile St-Louis.
Wandering home, despite spending a day in a chair, I was footsore somehow.
Maybe, like when it's stupendously cold out and you're not wearing your hat, your feet get cold because your body reroutes the heat from the less vital bits.
Maybe pushing my brain so hard stole strength from my feet.
Stopping by at the restaurant downstairs washed every splinter of that away.
I'd stopped by to offer them my mattress for free, because they need it and because I don't feel like trying to sell it anymore.
I said "I'll trade it to you for your masala recipe".
Instead, they gave me a cooking lesson, the cook jabbering in an unidentified dialect, and Gita translating, and showing me this or that way to better sear and mix the spices.
They're also insisting that I bring a friend or two by for a proper dinner.
In the meantime, I'm too thrilled for words, and can't understand why they won't understand that what they've already given me is worth far more than the cost of a bed or a meal.
Today, I was given such great gifts.