The delicious Belgian chocolate chain, Leonidas, has a teeny tiny kiosk in a shopping center near me. Whenever I am there, I pop by to get my favourite Cherry chocolate.
Well, I tell a fib here. I make my OH get the chocolate for me.
The kiosk is run by a TOTALLY hot, French guy. He wears tight white tee-shirts and smiles a lot. He has dark shaggy hair, sallow skin and soft brown eyes. His forearm muscles flex alluringly as he works the coffee machine. His voice alone is enough to make me melt. In my head I call him, Michel.
One time I was buying my treats, in fact the last time I ever bought any myself, and he said something to me. I couldn’t quite catch it and asked him to repeat it. Once again I didn’t understand a word he had said, possibly because I was feeling flushed and flustered that he had spoken to me at all. I didn’t ask him again, but rather, I cocked my head in the universal, “Beg your pardon?” gesture.
Oh god no! I still couldn’t decipher his Gallic accent.
Rather than ask him to repeat himself a forth time, I did the customary and socially polite thing…
“Yes! Haha!”, I flashed a big smile and nodded my head vigorously.
He just looked at me blankly and handed me my chocolate.
Whatever it was that he had said to me was obviously not best answered with an enthusiastic and grinning reply.
I took my chocolates and shuffled away red-faced.
I have never been able to summon up the courage to return to the kiosk, having made such a faux pas.
I remain clueless to this day as to what he said. Suggestions on postcard please!
Instead, I linger and ogle him from afar, as my OH buys me my sweet delights.
Oh and as if my humiliation was not complete enough…
The OH caught me last time and made a slightly unkind quip about him being a bit young for me anyway… bitter chocolate.