Sylvie, the French Foreign Object

Summer school took us to Valencia for three months, which was a heavenly place. The whole city took a nap at 2pm. They named a drink after us (“El Vantage,” Lemon Fanta and vodka) at our adopted bar in Canovas. It was a nice surprise, then, to return from a weekend trip to find Sylvie in the apartment.

“What’s her deal?” Lawrence asked, for the third time that week.

“I told you,” I said, “she was there when I got home. They took on another exchange student, probably because the money’s good.”

“At least she’s hot,” Andy offered.

I shot him a look, alarmed by his lack of discretion given Sylvie’s presence at the table with us. Not that it mattered – Sylvie was French, and spoke no English. Our only line of communication was mediocre Spanish.

“Look, hands off,” I commanded. “I don’t need you lot making things more complicated for me at home. They just gave me my own key.”

Sylvie uttered something about wanting to smoke and go high.

Lawrence was mesmerized. “Do you mind if I try to hook up with her later?”

View this story's 1 comments.