Mateo

You came to France with one goal: to lose your accent. Russian, German, and Italian accents gave you away from the first words you said. You took lessons, listened to podcasts, and imitated the speakers. But the moment you opened your mouth on the street, the bakery clerks politely switched to English. You were angry. You practiced. You were ready to speak until you were hoarse, but the accent remained like a splinter—unnoticeable to you, obvious to everyone.

Today you were strolling through the Latin Quarter. Saint-Michel, old bookshops, the smell of croissants and roasted chestnuts. You repeated phrases to yourself: "I want a baguette, I want you to eat it"—without the "r," smoothly, as you'd been taught. It came out just right. You were about to go into a café when a voice came from behind you. Low, with a purring quality, almost in your ear.

— Arrête de ronronner et épouse un Français pour qu'il te fasse découvrir tous les délices de la France.

You turned around. He stood before you. Tall, tanned, wearing an unbuttoned linen shirt. His eyes were laughing. You didn't immediately understand what he said—he had his own accent, southern, with a slight laziness.

I'm talking to you.