51 - The Rentrée of Desire

Summer in France is wall-to-wall bronzed tourists and chilled rosé next to the beach. For the rest of the country, it means shutting down bakeries, post offices gone, culture in a coma.

Public services: temporarily extinct. 

The summer slump is a nationally celebrated state of emergency where everything shuts down unless it’s right on the ocean—or at least decorated with seashells. 

And then—like someone slammed the ‘back to reality’ button—September arrives. Welcome to la rentrée: the collective burnout after vacation. As schools reopen with blessed relief, clubs and associations also kick off their new season. 

Rentrée is the starting gun for social fresh starts. Apparently, some familiar faces took rentrée as a reason to re-enroll—with me—as if I were a community college course you never actually finish but keep signing up for.

The first surprise came on Tinder, where I got a Super Like. I barely saved my phone before it got a refreshing Earl Grey shower—because of him, of all people! The guy from the asparagus spectacle. I couldn’t believe it and, of course, couldn’t resist pointing out that a) we already knew each other, and b) he had already had to throw away a blanket because of me. His reply: a grinning emoji and an invitation. Honestly, I had no words. I still don’t know what to make of it: is it charming that he so generously overlooks the past fiasco, or is he just desperate enough not to care as long as he gets laid?

Either way—booking canceled.

Candidate number two actually made me happy, even though I knew the reason for his re-enrollment was personal failure. Amar’s new relationship had burst like a water-filled condom thrown from a fifth-floor balcony. One broken condom isn’t the end of the world. There’s always another—right in my nightstand, for example. So he optimistically asked if we could see each other again soon—casual, of course. No pressure, but plenty of emphasis. This application was approved—complete with a welcome package and a well-stocked drawer.

And then there’s applicant number three, who is still messing with my emotional GPS. Do you remember the promising Swiss guy?

The one who got this whole experiment rolling—only to lose himself and me?

The one who staged a comeback with a borrowed child as an alibi and finally provided me with a crash course in visual interpretation—free, and involuntary—by sending me endless, contextless photos on WhatsApp. I swear, I can now diagnose a man’s issues from three pixels. 

This same man informed me, short and sharp, that he had kicked out his wife and was now free. I swallowed hard. I didn’t know what to do with this information. Not only that, but I felt compassion for him because his relationship had failed. Relief for him because it clearly wasn’t working for either of them. Sadness for us because it was simply too late. And guilt, because I had to tell him that I was freshly in love—with both my husband and with Leif. I had to break his heart when all he wanted was love—and in doing so, cracked a little piece of mine.

I wanted to send an automated emotional out-of-office reply: “Thank you for your interest. Unfortunately, my emotional, sexual, and dramatic quota is currently full. Please try again next year.” I didn’t owe him anything except honesty, so I just said it—with words, not with another out-of-context pic. 

I thought I’d signed up for Polyamory for Beginners—but apparently, someone secretly switched me into Poly-Drama for Advanced Students.