Paris-Travelers for Dummies (a fictional piece)

The rain slapped the sidewalk, with deafening noise that sounded like thousands of clicking tongues. A taxi flashed by, waving hello with a tidal wave of gutter water. The splash consumed my brand new scooter that sat parked on the side of the road, turning the shiny red to a sickly brown. It was brand, spanking new. I stood outside of the pastry shop with steam beginning to swirl around my head, twisting with the breath that fumed out my mouth. This was typical of my first month in France. I haphazardly jumped on a plane, leaving behind monotonous employment and a blank apartment room. Some may call it a mid-life crisis, and I'd probably agree. But you would sympathize with my reasoning. My entire life, the one thing that repeatedly eluded my grasp was a relationship. With a female. I was horrible with words. "So.... um.... er....." -- such was the extent of my vocabulary around women. I found high school most humiliating. Every school dance, I made the feeble trip over to the unfortunate drama queen's locker. "So.... er.... you and me.... the dance.... ya?" I grew accustomed to fragmented hearing in my right ear due to the locker slamming. Rejection has irritated me worse than a sunburn on my back when I lay down to sleep. And it never goes away. So I moved to France, the love capital of the world. I even bought a scooter to fit amongst the egocentric crowds. "Scooters boost your ego," says Paris-Travelers for Dummies. But that book doesn't say a word about a muddy scooter that won't start. It doesn't say how to fight depression while standing alone in a rain storm, wondering about luck, fate, karma, and whatever else has caused my life to stink like gutter water.