If I was your boyfriend

For dinner we would go to the very minimalist Le Societe,located in the chic heart of St. Germain des Pres,and after copious amounts of foie gras and glaceau de framboise,I would “pretend” that I forgot my wallet in the drawer of the 19th century tilt top table back in our room. I know you would glare at me for a very boring long minute,then grind your teeth in that way that makes my skin turn to rash,and say “I’ve heard this one before”,at which time I would defensively coo,“the trip to Tangiers is on me”,and silently and solemnly wish that I’m busy shooting a TV commercial in Turkey when it’s time for the next holiday.

The next morning,we would amble through the magnificent Jardin De Valois,and I would gasp in delight at the trees,the flowers and the architecture,but my platter-sized sunglasses would disguise the reason for the real joy in my voice— the Rick Owens boutique in the near distance. As you would ask me to pose under the acacia trees for the umpteenth photographic homage to me,I would secretly wish for a pigeon to deposit its droppings on my shirt,so that you would be left with no choice but to buy me racy new gear.

When we would walk through Montparnasse and up the excruciating steps to the Sacre Coeur,I would complain so very tediously,that once in the church,you would be left with no choice but to pray for only my peace and happiness. At night,we would go dancing to the cavernous Le Trois Maillets,where I would take to the stage and shimmy with such insane abandon,that when,as is de rigueur,you would hiss in my ear about jet lag and sleep deprivation,I would act drunk and say “the music’s too loud,can’t hear you,but yeah,even I dig this song. Let’s dance!” And then I would imagine you’re not there.

At the couture shows,if by a vicious twist of fate,there were only one front row seat,you would be well aware that we would break up if you deigned to sit on it. When you would excitedly yelp about the Brassai exhibition at the Pompidou centre,I would stiffen my mouth and remind you that the Truffaut retrospective at the Cinema Bibliotheque is essential for my education,and then derisively ask you if you have ever really cared for my dreams.

Your sickeningly sweet words of pathetic apology would make me explode into a rage so volcanic that the only way to diffuse my wrath would be to stay another week in Paris,the city of lovers,where I would fall more madly in love with myself. In those extra days,we would do more of everything that you wanted to,but still won’t be able to,because my to-do list would have bloated and ballooned and burst your bank account.

When,in frustration,you would finally see through me and blow me away like a broken eyelash,it would also be the time you would achingly want me because you know I’m the only one that makes you feel. Years later,when you are broke and lonely and hungry for our love,I would tell you that I if I was your boyfriend,the things I’d do for you,would be the stuff of legend. And then,I’d walk into the Paiget store and wait for you to enter.

(E-mail the columnist at mozezsingh@gmail.com)