A French Lover… and a Red Flag”
Over a glass (okay, bottle) of rosé, my girlfriend looked me dead in the eye and said:
“If you want to take your French to the next level, you need a boyfriend.”
I blinked.
“Ma chérie,” I replied, “I’m between jobs, between apartments, and somewhere between perimenopause and full-blown ‘Menopocalypse.’ A boyfriend is not on the vision board.”
Let’s be honest—at this stage in life, with fluctuating hormones, memory lapses, weight swings, and energy levels that resemble a dying iPhone battery, the last thing I wanted was to deal with horny, cheap Frenchmen. (Yes, I said what I said.)
But the universe, as it often does, had other plans.
Enter: Monsieur Mystery
A few days later, I met a sweet older man at my neighborhood pub. He was respectful, gentle, didn’t speak a word of English (yay, French practice!), and originally from Tunisia. He invited me to his favorite local Tunisian spot for dinner. I figured—why not?
We met again at the pub, had a beer, then strolled to the restaurant like we were in a low-budget romcom. The evening was actually *lovely*—charming conversation (well, as charming as it could be via Google Translate and mime), a delicious meal, and surprisingly, no red flags. We made plans for date number two.
And Then… The Drama
Date two: terrace dining. Mediterranean breeze, a little wine, and a man at the next table puffing away on a cigarette. My date noticed me fanning myself (*hello hot flashes*) and assumed the smoke was bothering me. Before I could correct him, he went full Napoleon (at barely 5 feet tall) and confronted the guy.
It escalated. Like, chairs-scraping, words-flying, small-man-energy escalated. I stayed out of it (I’ve learned to stay seated and still when French men start growling). I did keep my eye on the smoker’s date, though—she seemed unbothered, so I took that as my barometer.
Eventually, the men returned to their seats. The air was tense but cooling. My date went inside to pay, and I stayed at the table, mortified. The other guy and I made eye contact and, at the exact same moment, we both blurted:
“I’m sorry.”
We laughed. His date laughed. The table next to us giggled. All was forgiven.
Until…
My date returned outside, pointed at the man, and shouted—“C’est un raciste !”
I nearly tackled him into the street. Sir, read the room.
Afterward, I debated: Should I give this guy another chance or delete him from the story of my life? I went with door number two. Unpredictable behavior is a security risk. I stopped responding.
That didn’t stop him, though. He called. And called. And *called*. Each voicemail got weirder:
“Je suis fou amoureux de toi… I can’t stop thinking about you…”
Mind you, this man had known me for *one week*.
Plot Twist: My Friend Gets Involved
Later that week, I told my girlfriend (yes, *that* friend) what happened. She asked for his number out of curiosity. (Why do women always do this?) She listened to one of the voicemails and immediately said:
“Oh, he’s definitely older. And North African. I know exactly who this is.”
And then she did what only a woman with no fear and zero boundaries would do:
She called him herself.
And guess what? He started the same dramatic voicemail monologue “to her”. Full love confession. Full soap opera. Full delusion.
Keep in mind—we sound *nothing* alike. He knew it wasn’t me. He didn’t care.
She calmly asked, “I’m sorry, remind me how we met?”
He paused. Click. Hung up.
By the weekend, he was blowing up “her” phone, even while she was with her long-time boyfriend and teenage sons.
“Mom, your phone’s ringing again…”
“Let it go,” she replied, “It’s for Thembi.”
Seriously?… I walked away from this a week ago, but now she’s throwing me under the bus?
“Why didn’t you block him?” I asked.
She sipped her wine. “I can handle this head-on. I like to finish what I start.”
I said, “Don’t you have a family, and a life?”
Creative Justice
Nearly a week later, she had enough. She called him and left a message that would make Olivia Pope proud:
“I’ve forwarded your voicemails and number to the police. They now have your name and address. I’ll be filing an official report.”
Poof
He called back immediately, voice trembling, begging for forgiveness.
She hung up the phone feeling satisfied , raised a glass and declared, “Justice served.”
So… did I get the French practice? Yes.
Did I also get a mini-stalker with a Napoleon complex? Absolutely.
Would I do it again? Non, merci.
But hey, all’s fair in love and language lessons.
Catch the video version of this story on my YouTube channel:
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