Finished with his first French class of the quarter, Stephen quietly sings a song in French under his breath. He tells me about one of the other students, a guy who's married to a French woman.
"They're making plans to move to France."
"Ooh!" I say. But I don't say, la la.
"They're going to get there and just wander the countryside looking for the perfect place to settle down," he says.
"Must be nice," I say.
"I know," he tweaks his eyebrows at how unfair it all is. "Why couldn't you be French?" he asks.
"Technically I'm French," I say.
"Yeah," he says, "but not in a way that's useful."
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