Bad French Husbands

Denise is my last student on a Friday – 1:30-3:00. As I leave BTL right after her class, I sometimes see her on the phone or collecting her things on my way out.

Today I saw her on the phone, shopping bags in tow, on Boulevard Haussmann as I was walking to Saint Lazare. I waved with a smile, and she waved back and approached me.

“Hello! My husband is . . .” Denise paused as she searched for the word.

“Late?” I supplied.

“Yes – late! My husband is late!” she cried indignantly.

“Oh, he’s very bad!”

“Yes,” she nodded furiously, “very, very bad!”

Ahh . . . to be married to a French woman.

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