The night before the night before Christmas, when Chris was told to f*ck off

A tender story from a café terrace in Paris.

Moping around the Marais in the rain, I was eating Belgian chocolates out of my pocket, longing for Chicago and slipping into the dream of old horse-drawn, cobble-stoned Paris, fantasizing that I’d find a small abandoned Christmas tree that I could drag home and hang my earrings on.

Sinking comfortably into solitude, my eyes hidden under the shadow of a wide-brimmed winter hat, I took the least populated streets until I reached a clean, dimly-lit café terrasse and installed myself in the corner. There were only two other people outside: men bent over smartphones, quietly complaining to each other about their jobs. Inside, the only customer I could see was a young woman standing at the bar, poking fiercely at an iPhone.

The waiter was cheerful and so was I, when he set down my glass of rouge that sparkled so prettily in the over-head heat lights. Two days before Christmas, this normally busy Marais street was wonderfully silent. Sitting in the warm red light, across the street from a building draped in twinkling blue, with both colors swirling around each other on the shiny pavement in between, it was a lovely scene.

Until it got better. The men had just left and the girl from inside the bar came out, apparently needing some privacy to yell at her boyfriend. I looked up and our eyes met. I expected her to turn around and find somewhere to be alone, but she didn’t seem to mind me eavesdropping. She faced me as she yelled into her phone. “T’es ! Un ! Vrai ! Con ! Tu m’as pris du fric puis tu m’as jeté ! Je ne vais PLUS être ta connasse ! Je comprends pourquoi les gens te jettent, Chris ! Et moi, je te jette ! VA…TE…FAIRE…FOUTRE ! ET CREVER DANS TA MERDE !”* With that, she went back inside, gathered her things and left.

Stunned at the beauty and force of her efficacy, I smiled and took out a pen to write it down.

Merry Christmas eve eve Chris, wherever you are with this girl’s money.

Lonely man, green light.

Lonely man, green light.

* P.S. Translation of the rant: “You’re! A! Real! Asshole! You took my money and threw me away! I’m THROUGH being your bitch! I understand why people reject you, Chris! And I’m rejecting you! GO…FUCK…YOURSELF! AND DIE IN YOUR OWN SHIT!

Originally published on Dani’s Blog.