“Really,” he said. “I did. My friends can vouch for me. They had to keep loaning me their cell phones.”

I had two thoughts. First, I was going to meet his friends? Whoa. Just a few days ago, he had been a comfortably distant crush, an actor on the film screen of Paris. And now he wanted me to meet French people? What had I started here?

Second, he had so wanted to call me that he had kept borrowing cell phones from his friends, publicly admitting he was trying to get in touch with a girl who wasn’t answering? Aww.

Third, what was wrong with him anyway?

Fourth, could I wear the leather pants again for the first date, or would that be too obvious? Was I getting a little obsessed with leather pants?

Okay, I had more than two thoughts. It must be nice to be a man and only able to think of one thing at a time.

“So would you like to meet for a drink sometime this week?” he asked. “Say Wednesday?”

Wednesday was the day after tomorrow. I began hyperventilating. “Sure. I get off at six.”

“Yes, me, too. But I start at Le Relais at 7:30. Can we meet at the fountain at Châtelet? That will give us an hour.”

“Okay,” I said. An hour. How was I going to seem witty and attractive for a whole hour? Even with a menu on hand, I could only keep the conversation with him going about five minutes. And believe me, I can usually talk about food for a long time. “Umm, where else do you work?” I asked, practicing my conversational skills.

“Sciences et Vie,” he said. Wasn’t that a major scientific magazine? I remembered seeing it in the kiosks, something like our Scientific American or maybe Discover. “I do their illustrations.”

“And then you go work nights in a restaurant?”

He laughed. “Well, I work for Sciences et Vie as part of a cooperative learning program, so it doesn’t pay much. I got tired of eating pasta, and my best friend’s father owns Le Relais, so I started working there, too. I finish up my graphic arts degree this summer. Only a few months more and I’ll be able to quit at the restaurant.” He sounded deeply relieved, which, when I thought about it, made sense. He was a student, working nearly full-time at this magazine, and waiting tables nights. He must work from eight in the morning to one in the morning with almost no break most days of the week. And then study?

Okay, so whatever other flaws he might turn out to have, he clearly wasn’t lazy. Maybe he was calling me back because he didn’t have time to go hunt down a girlfriend; he had to take whoever fell into his lap.