When I open the door to see a younger-looking man with his hair in a ponytail behind the bar, I nearly yell in disappointment. Where is the giant? And if he's not here? What if she's not here?
"Excuse me, je cherche Céline ou un bartender qui vient du Sénégal."
He does not say anything. He doesn't even answer. Just keep washing glasses with soapy water.
I talked? Was it in French? I try again: this time I add a s'il vous plaît. He gives me a quick look, pulls out his phone, sends a text, then goes back to the dishes.
With, I mutter in French, another of Nathaniel's teachings. I push the door open, adrenaline pumping through me. I'm so mad at that i***t behind the counter that he didn't even reply to me, to myself, for coming all the way here for nothing.
"You come back!"
And I look u
