Le Dernier Mot: La Carte de Fidélité

While waiting in the checkout line at le supermarché, I listen to the man in front of me flirt with la caissière.

“Non, je ne suis jamais fidèle!” he chuckles, and his eyes brighten like a predator having zeroed in on his proie. Satisfied with his cheeky retort to the cashier’s question, he turns to the woman in line behind him, and winks.

I don’t return his clin d’oeil, instead I drop my gaze to the floor, where I watch the man’s heels lift, then touch the ground; lift and touch the ground once again – with one, two, three counts of immodesty, baby.

I look up in time to see Monsieur ‘I’m Too Sexy for this Supermarché’ as he swings those big ego eyes over to the cashier again. Then back to me, for a conspiratorial glance. I look away, no conspiratorial glance receiver am I!

I notice the pimply-faced youth standing next to his flirtatious Father. The poor kid looks as if he’d rather be cramming for the dreadful BAC exam, cleaning out his closet or sitting through a six-course meal with the monks at his private Catholic lycée. In short, he’d rather be anywhere but here, listening to his Dad drag la caissière.