French Kiss

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The weatherman nailed it. “Sticky, hot, and miserable. Highs in the nineties. Stay inside if you can.”

I can’t. I have to get someplace. Fast.

Jesus Christ, it’s hot. Especially if you’re running as fast as you can through Central Park and you’re wearing a dark gray Armani silk suit, a light gray Canali silk shirt, and black Ferragamo shoes.

As you might have guessed, I am late-very, very late. Très en retard, as we say in France.

I pick up speed until my legs hurt. I can feel little blisters forming on my toes and heels.

Why did I ever come to New York?

Why, oh why, did I leave Paris?

If I were running like this in Paris, I would be stopping all traffic. I would be the center of attention. Men and women would be shouting for the police.

“A young businessman has gone berserk! He is shoving baby carriages out of his path. He is frightening the old ladies walking their dogs.”

But this is not Paris. This is New York.

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