And like that, I found my husband. Or rather, he found me.
Stunned, I turned away from the vegetable stand and be-lined for Cheese Woman. Decked out in a silver bun and smelling of well-aged Roquefort, I figured the flirting potential between the two of us was moderate to low. I needed to clear my head.
After ordering a massive hunk of Camembert and a brick of parmesan (perhaps overkill, but when in France) I realized I was still clenching the zucchini in my left hand. I unzipped my grocery sack, and deftly chucked the zucchini into its bowels. With equal finesse I then proceeded to pay cheese lady with an English five pound note, drop my wallet and spill my sack of tangerines.
"Ce sont pas euros," Cheese Lady stated in a matter-of-fact-I-eat-Brie-like-it's-my-job sort of voice as I lunged for my wallet and watched my oranges disperse to every corner of the market. Durn.
The thing is, I'm not ready to be a wife. I'm not prepared to commit to a life as Mrs. Zucchini Man, whipping out zucchini pancakes every morning, blending zucchini smoothies around midday and baking up zucchini casseroles every night before I crawl between zucchini-printed sheets on a humble yet well-kept zucchini farm. I'm twenty years old for crying out loud.
"Bonjour," I'd said.
"Where are you from?" he'd asked. Ugh. I hate that after two syllables frenchies can tell I'm from Mars. He could have at least waited until I murdered the pronunciation of courgette before he pegged me as a tourist and inquired about my lineage.
"Je suis americaine," I replied. He was tan with dark hair and dark eyes. Almost tall dark and handsome, minus the four inches needed to meet the first qualifier.
"Ah, je suis espanol," he said smiling. "You are here for the week?"
"Non, pour six mois," I said, bursting into a grin. Every time I say that I feel like i'm taking a bath in chocolate syrup. But no time for food metaphors now because here I was with Zucchini Man and I needed to buy a zucchini and — not knowing the word for zucchini — this was going to be a struggle.
"Je voudrais une chose comme un concombre, mais plus dense," I ordered. A dense cucumber, really Phoebs, that's the best you can do?
"Un concombre mais plus dense," Zucchini Man repeated. "Ummmm, ici?"
Bam. Zucchini. Working off the shaky scaffolding of a request for "dense cucumber," Zucchini Man was a telepathic guru. He was already outperforming Garlic Man, who had given me shallots when I'd asked for a petit ongion, which he finally switched out for the garlic after I shook my head and said "non, quelque chose qui a un odeur plus fort," something with a stronger smell. Never before has grocery shopping so closely resembled a round of twenty questions.
"Une courgette," zucchini man said as passed the zuke from one hand to another. "Pour toi" he added as he held up a clementine and passed it to me. It was then that he told me I was his wife. It was then that I'd bolted.
With British Pounds rather than her native Euro currency, Cheese Woman was thoroughly disgruntled. I was equally disgruntled because she had cut me off a slice of artisanal Camembert that probably cost half my inheritance. And I wasn't ready to get married. And my organic tangerines were on the ground.
"Un moment," I told Cheese Woman. She could just let her cheese age for a few minutes while I found an ATM.
Fate is a fickle friend. And she was feeling especially fickle today, as she had placed the ATM directly in front of the zuke stand. I wasn't ready to interact post-proposal. I needed some time to process. Fate wasn't listening. So I got to awkwardly make peripheral eye contact with Zucchini Man, grunt in response when he shouted out "La semaine prochaine!" See you next week!, and smile out of one side of my mouth as I passed the zucchini stand a third time on my way back to the chaste aura of cheese woman's stall.
Switched Cheese Woman out for euros, yanked my shopping bags onto my shoulder, and headed for home to cook up some Sunday lunch. Anything but a zucchini smoothie would hit the spot.
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