Fabrice

The only American I have dated since being in Paris, Fabrice.

I met Fabrice at a bar while I was waiting in line for the bathroom. He had actually been with my group of friends, sitting at the other side of the table. I hadn't noticed. He seemed very sweet, I actually was under the impression that he was into boys because he was very good-looking, personable, and extremely well-dressed. I would like to think that I am usually right when I assume other's sexual orientations.

In the end, I had some free time after class one day, so I told him to meet me at Bastille. 

As soon as we started chatting, I knew that he was definitely not gay. Could have been him complimenting my scarf, or telling me that my jacket was ugly. Or maybe the fact that he refused to admit being lost. But what gave it away in the end was him trying to mistakenly place his hand on my breast while the metro jolted to a stop.

We checked out a Thai Resto that I had been interested in going to after reading a good review in a Paris guide book. According to the author, Fabrice and I were about to indulge ourselves with the best Thai food in Paris.

It was a cold winter day and we happened to be seated by the door. Fabrice complained THE WHOLE TIME. He also corrected my French because he was "perfectly bilingual". Little does Fabrice know, I have no patience for criticisms, especially from people who don't have a clue to as what they are talking about.

After almost falling asleep in my pad thai during his garrolous tales of gallavanting in New York (where he mentioned at least 9 times he had lived for a year), we left and he FOLLOWED ME HOME. I could not believe his thick-headedness. He even told a mutual friend that I was "fuckable".

I decided after this date that I would swear off of Americans for awhile. This should be easy enough, until my deportation.