A few years ago, my husband and I went to a restaurant on a Friday night. The Aperol spritzes had just arrived — we lived in Geneva, where the language is French and the cocktails are Italian — when a man I didn’t know approached our table. He started talking. My husband chatted back. On the sidelines, I limbered up my “bonsoir”s and “enchantée”s. But I never got the call-up. The man walked off, and I remained an unidentified sitting object — mute, anonymous, peeved.
“Why didn’t you introduce me?” I asked my husband.
“Why would I?” he replied. “That wouldn’t be normal.”
“Yeah, if you want your acquaintances to think you were out to dinner with a prostitute.”
“I barely know him.”
My husband, I had to remind myself, is a courteous person.… Seguir leyendo »