The Supermarket of Love, part trois

The French Blonde can be quite naive and oblivious sometimes. Yes, she is a soul quite often lost in her own world, failing miserably to notice the obvious because she's inclined to look for the unusual (i.e., architectural details rather than speeding cars).
So, the fact that the Supermarket of Love is a meat market of sorts of escaped her notice.
Then she went on three dates in the course of a week.

Now, while the FB finds internet dating sordid (sorry, sorry, sorry, she can't help it), she recognizes that this is the world she lives in, and not, say, Victorian England or Rome in the early 60s.

Why, hello, George Eliot!


Hello, scooter ride of my dreams!

Therefore, to the supermarket she went.
Date #1 was a gentleman whose rather emphatically intellectual prose (references to Ancient Greece, Hippocrates, Hypatia, etc.) led her to believe he might be interesting at least to talk to. An exchange of a couple of pleasant emails ensued.
Here the FB would like to digress and discuss chemistry for a moment. It's all very well and good to correspond on the internet and chat on the phone, but the fact is, only a physical meeting allows one to figure out if one wants to spend more time with someone. Usually, this can be determined in a matter of minutes. Not about the rest of one's life, for crying out loud, but whether one wants to spend yet another few minutes with that person. Demeanor, eye contact, tone of voice, way of speaking, smell, general manner, and yes, chemistry, are all essential and can only be judged in person.
So, Date #1 was quite attractive in an established, silver hair at the temples, white shirt and suit way. But his breath, from a reasonable distance--the distance between strangers who are attempting to get to know each other (in other words, he and the FB did not cheek-kiss upon acquaintance)--was so dramatically bad, the FB had the immediate impression of an internal rot, a kind of Baudelairean putrefaction of either the soul or one of the more necessary vital organs.

Rafflesia kerrii, a flower that emits a smell of rotting meat to attract flies for pollination. Found in southern Thailand and peninsular Malaysia.

It was four in the afternoon, so it was possible he'd eaten a decaying haunch of wildebeest for lunch, but as this meeting took place in Paris and not at a dusty crossroad in the Masai Mara, the FB finds this unlikely.

Would this be enough to put her off? Honestly, yes.
But she went through with the date, which was a simple tea, because the FB is curious. Also, the FB is a writer and recognizes an opportunity for material when she sees one. (Call her callous. Yes, go right ahead.)
Date #1 proceeded to tell her quite openly and honestly about his wife and his two kids. His wife, from whom he is not separated. His wife, from whom he is not divorced. His wife, whom he lives with. And who may or may not know about his internet dating life but "it is not the sort of thing one discusses in a couple."
("Which tells you a whole lot about that relationship," said the FB's snarky pal, Clovis).
At tea, Date #1 proceeded to tell the FB that he was looking for "the unexpected." That his life was made up of obligations and responsibilities and that some of them were quite delightful, but there was too much equilibrium in his life and he was looking to shake things up. Which is why he was on the internet. And had been for over ten years. ("You see my point," Clovis added). It was also why he was pursuing an advanced degree in history and art history. Because he wanted to put more emphasis on other parts of his life (intellectual, romantic) than he'd previously done, because those parts of his life had suffered from neglect.
The FB sat in the lobby of a grand hotel, sipping her Earl Grey, aware that she was acting a bit fraudulently by staying there, but she was torn. It was fascinating to hear him explain his behavior, partly because it was clear he was missing something in his life and this was the only way he'd come up with to find it, and partly because she suddenly realized she wasn't trapped: she was just listening to someone tell her about his life. It didn't oblige her to behave or be anything other than a sympathetic listener. Had she fled, as is her wont, she would never have known that he was a human being walking his own path, crooked or otherwise, who was genuinely looking for something. That was something to be compassionate about, even if the FB had no interest in seeing him again. On a side note, let it be stated for the record that Date #1 asked the FB very little about herself.
After an hour, they said goodbye and the FB went and drank champagne with a bunch of lovely people at an impromptu cocktail party.

When Date#1 contacted her to express interest in seeing the FB again in any capacity she wished, she wrote him a brief email expressing both her pleasure at having met him and her firm decision that it would not happen again, as it was very clear to her they were not looking for the same thing.
Stay tuned for Date #2.