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Nicole took me to dinner one evening on the Left Bank for Couscous, in a section of town with Arabic trade names, cobblestone streets, narrow walks and crowds wore darker shades of fabric. Couscous having no meaning for me, I realized we were entering a Moroccan cafe. We arrived at the door at just the same time as a couple from New York in tourist gloat. There began immediately an exchange of mutual language, as my friend and they began a travelogue. The hour being early the restaurant empty, I found myself at table with people who talked furiously. They talked French customs, USA home, and Paris; and I shy, hardly saying a word, as the wine and meal were served indistinctly, and they ate so fast I could hardly keep up, gobbling, talking, mouths of meaty anecdotes, and before my chance to swallow the last bite, we were back in the street and hail parting, and it was all with such dizzying speed that I hardly felt I had been at the restaurant at all - missed the decor, missed the food, missed where I had just been, and my first meal of Couscous was a New York Minute gobble.
That may have been the last straw. Nicole was my model woman and I liked ferrying her around and what-not. That was not the problem. She introduced me to all sorts of wondrous things. It was the passive aggressive that I objected to, the indirect dispensation of orders. I just wanted her to be direct. Just tell me what to do it and I will probably do it. I didn't like being mislead. Say we are going one place and end up going seven, none of which I had planned on.
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