Asshole.

She was sitting on the ledge of a window outside a record shop -- chain smoking what she told herself would be her last pack. He was heading over to re-purchase a Libertines vinyl he had lent to an irresponsible person several months prior.

They didn't recognize each other for a moment, but when they did, they shared a lover's embrace. She said it was great to see him. He said he liked her hair. She said she chopped it off a few days ago and was still getting used to it. He said he still loved pixies and he knew it would look tre jolie on her. She said merci beaucoup.

He started seeming less and less different and more and more like she remembered. She could never forget that old jean jacket of his, he could never forget those eyes. They stood there for a moment, each recalling the past. All the French cinema, the masochistic sex, the shared books, the odd dreams, the cigarettes and wine, The Smiths. They seemed to be submerged by the memories. They were overwhelming. How could she have forgotten? He started to say something, but he was interrupted.

"Baby, they didn't have it." The man the voice belonged to gave her hair a playful messing up. I'd like you to meet my boyfriend, James.

James was wearing all black with a scarf tied around his neck. When he shook hands, when he asked "so, who are you?", when he lit his cigarette, he came off as an asshole. He couldn't help but wonder if James was good to her. He certainly hoped so, though he doubted it a bit.

She introduces them. All quiet on the Western front. Then she says something like, "This has been sufficiently awkward." She grabs a piece of paper from her little notebook with the Eiffel Tower on it -- she still has that, he thought -- and uses James' back to write something.

Call me sometime, she says as she hands him the paper, we can catch up over lunch. 

James asks again, who was that? She says he was just a guy she dated for a few months. He was an asshole. Just like you. She smiles.

After getting the Libertines record and a Smiths one out of nostalgia, he takes the piece of paper out of his pocket. She still dotted her "i" with a heart.