The supermarket of love, part cinq

The French Blonde is a recycler. She loves writing notes and lists on scraps of paper, so she diligently cuts used envelopes and junk mail into index card-like squares and places them by every phone and in every room. Every once in a while, she must parse through the horrendous collection of scribbles, lists, and ideas for cakes, short stories, and dinner parties, and throw out the scraps that are no longer necessary (which, of course, get tossed into the recycling bin).

Which brings her to how she met Date #5. Having been given the Sophie Calle questionnaire by Date #2, the FB decided to recycle it as a way to ask a handsome stranger about himself. Date #5, who was quite adorable in his one picture, decided to play along. Alas, his responses were lacking in any wit or insight. They were short and workmanlike and sometimes flirty, but revealed nothing. Not so appealing, but the FB has realized that not everyone is great on paper or in emails.

The FB and Date #5 arranged to meet on the steps of the Bastille Opera. In general, this is not a great place to sit alone, unless one wants to chat up skinhead anarchists, groups of aimless youth, or lost German tourists (at least that day); moreover, the steps are littered with broken glass. The FB was wearing jeans and found a spot in the shade. Immediately, a skinhead anarchist politely explained that these steps did not lead to the opera house entrance. The FB thanked him and didn't move.

Date #5 was late, but called to say so. The FB walked down to meet him and found that he was, indeed, handsome. He was also wearing a shiny suit, silver aviators, and pointy shoes, a style that does not appeal to the FB but that she recognized is nonetheless considered well-put together and snazzy to other aesthetics. The FB led them to an eccentric brulerie where they had coffee. Date #5 kept putting the tip of his sunglasses in his mouth and sucking on them while staring at the FB through heavy-lidded eyes whereupon the FB suddenly turned into her mother and had to forcibly repress the urge to tell him that no one past the age of fourteen thinks sucking one's sunglasses is a sexy gesture and to sit up straight while you're at it.













The FB's mother has a point.

The FB reverted to her normal self and Date #5 eventually put his sunglasses away. Date #5 was funny, playful, and the conversation generally pleasant. Date #5 was also married, had four children, and had fathered two other children "that I know of." He lived with his wife on the weekends in a distant town, and lived in a studio in Paris during the week. They had an "open marriage."

Suddenly elsewhere, the FB contemplated going on a hundred first dates with married men in order to find out why they were looking for someone on the internet so that she could analyze the data and then publish an article on the subject. Then the FB realized that conducting such research, although informative, would depress her.

The rest of Date #5 was a blur. Then, Date #5 asked the FB what she was looking for. Taken unaware by the question, the FB said that she was looking for companionship, a nice man to remind her she was a woman...and she realized she was sounding disingenuously like a character in a French film when Date #5 jumped in and said, "I can provide that." The offer rattled the FB. It was cash, as the French say: baldly direct. Later, she realized if she'd continued listing what she was looking for, she would've added: an emotionally available partner to have a serious relationship with.

The date ended amicably with the FB saying she would be in touch (another way of saying she wouldn't).

When the FB filled in one of her dearest friends, LMC, on Date #5, LMC told her that another friend had said The Supermarket of Love, c'est pour baiser.

Realizing it was true, the FB decided to start shopping elsewhere.