As a uniformed maître d’ leads me to Sandro’s table at La Coupole, I admire the art deco murals of this legendary brasserie where Joséphine Baker once came with a lion cub and Marc Chagall celebrated his last birthday.

I also take the full measure of how nervous I am about today.

First, because the DCA gang—especially the perceptive Delphine—is bound to ask me questions I’ll have to skirt. Second, because Xavier, whom I’m seeing later this afternoon, might attempt hand-holding or other forms of physical contact for which I’m not ready yet.

Barbara throws herself at me with such force I sway. “Mia, you bastard, how long were you going to keep your return from us?”

She gives me a bear hug and then moves away to make room for Delphine.

“I’m sorry, guys, I really am,” I say as I embrace Delphine and then then Sandro.

Delphine arches an eyebrow. “We might forgive you if you tell us everything.”

And that’s exactly what I do over the next hour. I fill them in about my life in Martinique, my upcoming defense, and the co-moderated workshop. I also tell them about Lily, feeding them the same version of her origins I gave Raphael. Who knows, if I repeat it often enough, maybe I’ll start believing it myself.

“So her dad stayed back in Martinique?” Sandro asks. “Is it really over between you two?”

I nod.

“I had a romance like that, too, a couple of years back,” Barb says, her eyes dreamy. “It took just three or four weeks before my rose-colored glasses fell off. But while it lasted, I was crazy about the guy.”

“Sounds like your glasses were colored by horniness more than roses,” Sandro says.

Barbara shrugs a perhaps.

I glance at Delphine, who’s been suspiciously quiet.

She’s eyeing me with an impish look in her eyes, and I know exactly what she’s trying to communicate.

You can fool those two, ma cocotte, but not me.

Thankfully, she doesn’t say it out loud.

We say good-bye at two-thirty on a promise to do this again in a couple of weeks and that I’ll bring Lily along so they can meet her.

At a quarter to three, I’m in front of the main entrance of the Montparnasse tower for my rendezvous with Xavier, who hasn’t arrived yet. Fifteen minutes later, he climbs off his bicycle, secures it with a U-lock, and heads toward me. He’s right on time. It’s me who got here early, having almost run the short distance from La Coupole. I suspect I’m too eager to get this dating thing started… and over with.

Argh!

I shouldn’t think that way. What’s the point in trying to date someone if I’m already looking forward to the end of the experiment?

Xavier seems to be such a great guy.

He says he loves children. He volunteers for several humanitarian organizations. Whenever he can, he participates in antiwar rallies, and he has recently purchased an indoor worm composter. It’s a container filled with worms that eat organic waste, and it’s perfect for apartments as an alternative to outdoor composting. Xavier claims the worms stay inside the container. He told me everything there is to know about it in minute detail after Professor Guyot’s workshop last Monday.

A man like that deserves my best effort.

And I’ll be damned if don’t give it to him. Raphael’s impromptu visit two days ago won’t make me change my mind.

“So what’s the plan?” I ask after we cheek kiss. “I have two hours.”

Annoyance flickers in his eyes. “Why so little?”

“Lily,” I say. “The nursery closes at six, and I need an hour to get there, factoring in the usual métro suspects like suspicious packages on the platform, electricity outages, and personnel strikes.”

He smiles. “The trade unions haven’t announced any strikes for today.”

“Did they also promise no abandoned backpacks?” I ask, smiling back.

“Unfortunately not.”

“Then we have two hours.”

“OK,” he says. “Let me think. I wanted to take you to one of the charities where I volunteer, then to the recycling cooperative, and then to a café.”

“Pick one.”

“Let’s do the cooperative.” He gives me a determined nod. “Maybe you’ll find something nice to buy in their shop.”

I wish he’d picked the café.

Shame on me.

A recycling cooperative is of course a much better choice.

Fifteen minutes later, Xavier opens the door to a folksy-looking shop, and we walk in. Introductions and handshakes ensue, after which Xavier gives me a tour of the premises.

“These are made in Senegal from recycled plastic bags.” He points at a selection of god-awful pocketbooks that cost a fortune.

“Nice,” I say.

He picks up a wallet with a splashy yellow-green pattern reminiscent of vomit. “Would you like to buy one? It’s Fair Trade Certified, like everything here.”

“Um…” I give him an apologetic look. “I don’t need a wallet.”

He puts the item back on the shelf.

I wonder why I felt compelled to apologize. Why didn’t I just say the wallet was ugly as hell and not worth a quarter of the price the cooperative charges for it? Out of politeness, no doubt. I don’t know Xavier well enough to be frank. It’ll come.

As we continue the tour, he shows me more objects that are as hideous as they are useless. I say “nice” every time, itching to ask if the shop ever manages to sell anything. But I bite my tongue. The cooperative must be one of those outfits that exist as long as they’re funded and dissolve as soon as the grant dries up. Purchasing their products is an act of solidarity with workers in developing countries rather than regular shopping.

I should be ashamed of myself.

“This key ring is lovely.” I point to the cheapest object, which is as “lovely” as a pack of hyenas feasting on a carcass.

He follows my gaze. “It was made in Somalia.”

“I’ll buy it.”

Xavier’s expression brightens.

Phew.

I can’t get out of the shop quickly enough.

“We still have forty-five minutes,” Xavier says after we wave good-bye to his buddies. “How about a coffee?”

I beam. “Good idea.”

A few minutes later, we’re seated in the back of a dimly lit bistro. “I hope you enjoyed the excursion,” Xavier says. “Next time I’ll show you the homeless shelter I volunteer for.”

“I’d like that.”

Liar.

“And maybe another time,” he says, “we could hang out with your baby so you won’t need to rush home?”

“Sure,” I say.

And I almost mean it.

We order two espressos.

“Did I tell you I practice tantric yoga?” he asks.

“Sounds impressive.”

“You don’t know what that means, do you?”

“Nope,” I admit.

“It means I have such control over my body I can last forever during sex.”

“Oh.” I stare at my hands on the table. “That’s… nice.”

I’ve said “nice” at least a hundred times today.

Xavier covers one of my hands with his and strokes his thumb across my palm, slowly and deliberately. I let him, trying to figure out if I like it. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t. Xavier is attractive, and good, and I haven’t been touched by a man in over a year.

There’s a pattern to his stroking… It’s a spiral… Clockwise expanding, then a straight line, then counterclockwise shrinking.

Must be a tantric thing.

He lets go of my hand, bounds around the table, and sits on the bench next to me.

I wonder what he’ll do next.

He lowers his head and begins to tongue my earlobe.

I stiffen.

He continues with a redoubled zeal.

That makes me think of my early days with Raphael, when we were still learning each other. My freezing like this would’ve stopped him short. Unlike all the other men I’ve kissed, made out with, or had sex with, Raphael pays attention to nonverbal feedback.

Maybe he’s a freak.

I draw back and give verbal feedback to Xavier. “I don’t like ear licking.”

He looks stung, as if I said something mean.

That’s a shame.

I wish he’d just say, “Note taken, I won’t do that again,” and move on, like Raphael would’ve done. I wish he weren’t so heavy going and earnest.

I wish Raphael hadn’t ruined me for everyone else.