She hadn’t noticed him before either, but with all this talking it was hard to see. He seemed younger than her, but it was hard to say for sure. He was rather square and somewhat short, certainly under 5'8", Theresa’s minimum height for a romantic contender. He was ugly enough, Theresa thought, despite his broad shoulders and blonde hair.
The man turned to greet someone and Theresa saw it was the janitor. They spoke as if they knew each other well. The man gestured to the janitor to sit, but the old man pointed to Theresa. The man listened, nodded, and stood up as the janitor left his table. Then he sat back down in his chair and stared openly and interestedly at Theresa.
The janitor was clearly headed to Theresa, but was waylaid by the waiter and his group, who also seemed to know him. He was pulled down into a chair, without too much dissent, and given a welcome beer. Theresa watched him for awhile and then glanced back over at the blond man, who was still watching her. She looked down and pulled out her Blackberry, on reflex. She had begun to compose a post for her blog on the rudeness of French men when a young woman from the janitor’s table leaned over and spoke to her. The woman said, “Claude say you miss your train, eh? You need a ride?”
Theresa asked, “Who is Claude?” and the young woman said, “Who eez Claude? Voila Claude!” and she put her hand on the janitor’s shoulder.
“Yes, I desperately need a ride!”
“Claude say he will drive you, eh? He has, how you say, volunteered?” She turned back to the group at her table, who seemed to be hanging on every word and they burst into excited French. Then they all paused and looked back at Theresa. She said, “The janitor will drive me?”
“You have a problem with janitors?” It was the blonde man, at her elbow and no better looking close up. She said hurriedly, “No, no, not at all. He just seems, well, he seems a bit old to be heading out at midnight for a road trip.”
