Free The Wonder Spot by Melissa Bank Page B

was in Antibes.”
    â€œHe’s incredibly smart,” she said. “But sweet, too. That’s rare, I think.”
    I thought of Doug, the busboy I’d made out with on my last night of work, and it occurred to me that he was not particularly smart and not that sweet, either. “Yeah,” I said.
    Georges had beautiful manners. “He always stands when a woman enters the room,” she said. “I love that kind of thing.”
    â€œMe, too,” I said, because suddenly I did love that kind of thing, though I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen a guy my age stand for a woman unless he happened by coincidence to be leaving at that moment.
    Venice told me that Georges spoke six languages fluently, and though English was one of them, the lovers spoke French.
    She said that they didn’t sleep together until the last night, and she closed her eyes, remembering.
    â€œWhat?” I said.
    She repeated something he’d said to her in French.
    I told her that it sounded romantic but I spoke zero foreign languages.
    She said, “He kept saying, ‘Please don’t sleep,’ and every time I’d doze off, I’d wake up to him saying, ‘Don’t sleep, my love. Don’t leave me before you have to.’ ”
    â€œWow,” I said.
    She said, “I know.”
    Maybe she could tell I doubted the story because she got his powder-blue aerograms out, and line by line she read and translated his romantic French.
    â€œWait,” I said. “ Ma puce means ‘darling’?”
    She told me that, literally translated, ma puce meant “my flea,” but, “It’s like our ‘honey’—no one thinks of actual honey.”
    I got her to give me the literal translation for every “darling” or “sweetheart”: Mon chou meant “my cabbage,” mon lapin, “my rabbit.”
    After she told me about losing her virginity to a Swiss ski instructor, she looked over at me. I knew she was waiting for me to tell her my story, and it occurred to me to make one up. Instead, I admitted that I’d never skied.
    . . . . .
    Our resident adviser invited Venice and me into her homey room, saying, “I just want to have a little chat.” She asked if we wanted tea or coffee, and she also had hot chocolate and chicken noodle soup.
    I was sort of excited at the idea of chicken noodle soup. “I’ll have some soup,” I said. “Thanks.”
    Venice gave me a look: Let’s not make this any longer than it has to be. She said, “Nothing for me, thanks.”
    Betsy plugged in her hot pot. She asked how we were liking Rogers, and who our favorite professors were. She was a nice girl from Syracuse, and you could tell that she took her job as resident adviser seriously.
    She handed me the mug of soup; it was hot, and I blew on it.
    She said, “You guys are spending an awful lot of time together.” She was struggling. “You know, this is the time for making new friends,” she said. “Meeting everybody.”
    We both said we’d made other friends, which was a little truer for me than for Venice.
    Betsy said, “I just want to make sure you’re open to other relationships.”
    I said, “I’m open.”
    Venice couldn’t make herself say words like these, but she nodded and widened her eyes to convey openness.
    Betsy said, “College is when you make the friendships that will last for the rest of your life.” She looked miserable saying this.
    She went from cliché to cliché, as though stepping from one flat stone to the next across a roiling river, until finally Venice said, “I think I understand what you’re trying to say,” though neither of us did.
    A few days later we found out: There was a rumor that Venice and I were lesbians.
    It didn’t bother Venice at all, and I tried to act nonchalant, too. I asked if she wasn’t