Page 107 of Almost Not Quite Engaged

“You’re fucking kidding me?”

Liesel and Bill can’t stop laughing. It’s freaking dawn, I’m jet lagged, but last night I slept better than I have since Hawaii.

I’m standing on a fishing boat holding some sort of net screaming in French at the crew while Bill films, and I pretend I’m the captain. The real captain then strides up with his ruddy and perfectly seasoned fisherman appearance.

“Je ne porte pas le chapeau.” The captain steps to me in his hot dog mustard yellow waders.

I snap a picture of me to send to Kat. Getting out of a perfect puffy bed with her naked from the waist down goes down as one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to endure. I don’t know how to walk away from her even for a morning. Seriously fucked up over her. I smile at a picture we took last night when we arrived. The two of us smooshed in frame, slap-happy and laughing. It’s not the sex, although if I could figure out how to monetize it, fucking that woman would be my job. And it’s not that I was lonely. But I’m obsessed with how I feel when I’m with her. How I am just my most natural self and that’s what that picture is. The two of us laughing so hard at nothing but sharing that feeling. It’s all ours and can’t be explained or dissected.

“YO!” I’m hit with a microphone foam cover in the face by Liesel.

“Wear the hat or you don’t go.” I shove the floppy rain hat on my head and open my arms wide.

“I implore you not to post this.”

Bill lifts his camera.

Liesel quickly slates the moment and stifles a laugh as she says, “Marseille intro take one.”

“Welcome to Marseille where fishing is king. And rock beaches take your breath away. Everything is stunning here in the South of France but the down to earth working class are the beating heart of this city, not the tourists or the wealth of St. Tropez. Wanna get to know the French, come here. Eat what they catch, revel in their graffitied background and maybe have dinner on a staircase. Sit down, toss back a Pastis or even…” I toss the net up and it lands on my head. “...a net.”

“Cut. Perfect. How the hell do you do that?”

“I’m that good,” I say still covered in the briny stink of the fishing net.

The captain takes the net and the hat off of my head. “Good.” He slaps my back and I am going to smell like Marseille for a week.

I shake the crew’s hands, and they offer me a bucket of fish. I grin and hand them cash I know they won’t take. I’ll have Liesel somehow pay them and do something with this fish.

“What’s next?” I ask peeling off the waders.

“Soap making,” Bill says.

“No. I’m not making soap. I know it’s a big deal here. Let’s walk and find something else.”

My companions clap, it’s their favorite, because we always find something more interesting than what the exec producers want us to do. I’ll make soap, because they demand it but first I want a sandwich, a drink and a pen.

What I truly want to do is climb into the shower and let her scrub all the fish stink off of me. But she’s sleeping. I’ll wait.

“Actually, can I walk for a bit? I haven’t been here in a while and want to explore. If I find something I’ll shoot it my damn self. Go off and frolic, and Liesel go take care of your man.”

“Thanks, Z, we’re kind of hungry.”

I take off down the street. The graffiti and grit of an urban center kind of smash-cut everyone’s expectations of a seaside town in the South of France. I wander into and out of stores. Character in the dirty storefronts and whimsy pull me into their story. I sit down at a random cafe and grab a cup of coffee, but somehow I’m no longer just writing my musings into the ether like always. Or writing only to her. They have shape and form in a way they never have. The words have a space to live because I’m writing them to someone. I don’t know if I’m ready to show her all my randomness yet, but it feels right that maybe someday I will.

They place my pastry down and I ask, “Est-ce que je peux emprunter un stylo, s’il vous plaît ?” She grins and hands me a pen as I scribble on a Savoy notepad.

K

I have a stack of random sheets of paper from around the world that basically tell the story of the cities I visit. Things I wish I could use as observations for the show but they’re not my brand. God forbid I’m not on the verge of puking or eating something no one on earth should. Side note -In Marseille, you’re sleeping up the street. This city is uncomfortable. Like it’s constantly proving itself. It’s gritty and raw and makes me want to give it a hug. The graffiti is as ubiquitous as the beauty. It’s like they all have something to prove to earn the view they were gifted with. Until it’s later -

Z

It’s weird, she’s with me but I miss writing to her on the blog. Sharing little bits of my day. These notes are just for me, she’d never want them. She’s traveling with me now, but I’m pretty sure one shitty day and she’ll head out on her own. Like she’ll discover I’m not what she hoped. Shit.

I put the pen down and return the paper to my back pocket. I still smell like fish but I imagine so does everyone else here.

I sit back and sip my coffee imagining she’s here with me. Not sure why she’s not writing. Maybe I was too aggressive with the schedule. But I’m a man with a lot to say who might have held his tongue a little too much for the sake of being left alone. Guess it’s time to see if what I have to say is worthy of hearing. And I hope she’ll be listening.