Finding Gene Kelly

by Torie Jean

What I wouldn’t give for a bite of that man’s hulking French stick right now.

Saint Honoré, that’d pair nicely with the can of “depression cheese” I’m clutching.

A stereotypical lost soul studying abroad at the Sorbonne, but her heart belongs to a former generation of Americans in Paris: the wide-eyed individuals who were enamored with the simplicity, grace, and decadence of Parisian culture.

“I’m headed over to the Chomps Eelisses,” Red Beret says,

Which as a recovering people-pleaser, I will agree to, attend, and then smash my head into the hard surface of the table while she attempts to cure my chronic illness through the power of suggestion.

“Have you tried yoga?” “If you cut out gluten and dairy, you could cure it naturally.” “Your state of mind is so powerful. It’s how you choose to approach it. Think positive, and you’ll feel positive.”

:fishgun:

But men who read are a particular weakness of mine.

My chronic fatigue is tired for her.

Apparently you can’t shake the cobwebs off a flirting game that never existed.

I’m not flourishing. And I’m probably weird.

I exist in a state of perpetual pain, and I’ve had to accept that to survive—it’d be nice if others acknowledged and were okay with it.

We have the same origins, body composition, and general lackluster appeal. This synthetic cheese and I are one.

“Queens deserve to be spoiled,”

“This isn’t the right time for donuts, dear.” Lies. Any time is the right time for donuts.

I can’t ignore it. The man’s a freakin’ Dorito.

“How’s your head? Does it feel like you have any open wounds?” Just the one that opened a wormhole to an alternate reality where you’re a concerned gentleman.

curled up with my heating pad, a.k.a. Channing Tatum, which is giving me a lap dance hotter than Magic Mike XXL.

What—and I cannot stress this enough—the actual fuck.

ME: You can come. ME: But you owe me cheese.

“There are only two places in the world where we can live happy—at home and in Paris.”

Paris was, after all, always a good idea.

“Trust me—my fantasies of you aren’t weird.” Open mouth. Wince. Repeat.

He still wears his shirt sleeves like Gene Kelly—high and tight. Neat. That doesn’t make me weak in the knees at all. Le nope.

Seriously, I’m as bad as a Victorian man seeing a woman’s ankles for the first time.

“Just bread? Just. Bread?” The words roll off my tongue with significant friction. “Is the Eiffel Tower just a structure? Is Notre Dame just a church? No! This isn’t just bread. This is French bread in Paris!

“I get it.” He puts a hand up to halt my response. “I was a little shit.” “You were a big one, too,” I mumble.

I am and would always be so much more than my ability to create tiny humans inside of me.

Okay, Lizzie McGuire doodle, chill.

He pulls away, flexing his hand at his side.

hehehe

Screw it. I need a cleansing crêpe.

None of this gets easier. I just have to get tougher. Hell, I am so tired of having to be tougher.

Sure, I would prefer a cure, but there’s no time for that when you have an erectile dysfunction crisis looming. Stodgy old cis men must be able to get it up at all costs!

“Shit, your hands are magic.” “You should see what else they can do,”

“You almost murdered me the other day because I ate a sandwich with a fork.” “If you don’t see the problem with that, I don’t know what to tell you.”

I love ninety-eight percent of that movie, in fact. I dislike the ending because I’m a happily ever after or get the fuck out kind of gal with my fiction.”

same

“Life sucks hard most of the time. Let me escape into a promised land where everything works out in the end.”

A pink-frosted donut with rainbow sprinkles, a pain au chocolat, and a peach tartlet are all delicately placed next to a cup of steaming coffee.

my new fav fictional man, everyone

We are the past. We become the future in a literal blink of an eye. Life continues on.

I clear my throat, hoping it doesn’t close. I’m allergic to stressful lines of questioning,

I roll my eyes so far in the back of my head, I’m sure I can see my brain. It’s a rather dark place, not much happening.

“He’ll be out in two more years on good behavior, and he’s a doctor.” “No, he’s not, Bea.” The gray-haired lady groans. “That’s why he’s in jail.”

“But he changed,” I whisper under my breath. “He bought us pastries. Multiple pastries.”

I was devastated for two seconds and then got over it.

“Are we getting RickRolled right now?”

“Absolutely, whenever I need someone to get me wet, you’ll be the first person I call.” I catch him mid-bite, and he starts to choke.

“Shut up and kiss me, asshole.”

“Can I see you again soon?” “Yeah, of course. Whenever you’re free, I’ll brie around.” Must. Stop. Making. Cheese. Puns. After. Making. Out. With. A. Man.

“Being an adult is the worst.” Honestly, mood.

“You’ll have to beat the egg whites until they’re stiff.” “I’ll beat whatever the hell you want,” he says between heaving breaths.

But this broke me. Your fucking lips broke me.”