Ça, c’est très français.

THE WAITER CAME over the moment she sat down. “Bonsoir, madamoiselle.” He assisted with her chair and napkin. “Voulez-vous boire quelque chose?”

She wished he could give her a minute to settle. It took courage for a single young woman to eat out alone in Paris. “Oui… une tasse d’eau, si’l vous plait, san gas.”

He nodded and headed for the kitchen. At least he hadn’t repeated her in English. That was the worst, how people reply in English when you speak French. She knew her French was bad, but how was she supposed to improve without practice?

She turned her attention to the busy street and started counting baguettes. It was dinnertime; everyone had stopped at their local boulangerie for their nightly baguette. It was funny, how they carried it under their arm.  Ça, c’est très français.

The waiter returned with her water and a menu. “Will you be ordering from the prix fixe menu, madamoiselle?’

She flushed, her cheeks burning.  I’m going to say ‘oui’ this time. I’m going to say…

“Yes, I’ll be ordering off the price fixed menu,” she replied, not meeting his eyes.

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Written for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner – 2018 Week #32