Frenchusband came home with a twinkle in his eye; handing me a note that had the name and phone number of someone I didn’t know.
"A certain Monsieur wants you to decorate his home on the French Rivera, and possibly other properties he owns! He wants you to call him today." Saying this his face beamed brighter than the moon on the Mediterranean!
Frenchhusband is my biggest fan, he thinks I could redecorate Versailles, he thinks my fingers are golden, he thinks way too much of how I can fold fitted bedsheets and put the linens away.
I look at him and then the note. I lick my lips wondering what this is about.
"Call him now!" Frenchhusband says as he nearly shoves the phone down my throat with excitement.
Words stumble through my head in French, my heart beats faster, my fingers wiggle, I awkwardly smile at the plunge I am about to take.
Dialing the number a woman’s voice greets me. Introducing myself my American accent gives more than I want it too. Silence lingers…I swallow doubt, a thought races through my head, "HANG UP!!" I stay on the line chasing nonsense out of my intuition. Finally after ages of silence that occurs in a split second, that only mathematicians can explain, the woman barks at me,"WHAT!!! What, what??? Who are you??? What has my Husband done??? WHAT??? NO! Oh no no no no!! Certainly not!"
I wanted to say I am not his mistress. Somehow that is what I think she thought.
Folding fitted sheets and putting the linens away is a simple art for my bedroom closet. One man’s admiration is enough. Talk about lost in translation, or misplaced in the dirty laundry!
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