viscountess francaise

Typical Sunday ritual in NYC for nearly 2.5 years: My partner-in-crime-and-in-love and I drank coffee in our petite home with our three cats and dog. She worked on her projects, I read the New York Times. I always start with the wedding section. There is something masochistic about this, especially in the shadow of said partner. Engaged and broken up ten times over. Nothing ever fit right, everything was always in flux. But nevertheless I dreamt of Williams and Sonoma wedding registries fulfilled (we’d had two), white dresses (I’d bought one and returned it a week later tearfully) and the thought that someone, anyone would be willing to stand in front of everyone I love and scream at the top of their lungs “I LOVE YOU!”

So each and every Sunday went this way. Me signing my dreams into thin newspaper. Staining my fingers with ink; my teeth with coffee. Her blissfully unaware of my swoons over fanciful dreams that I knew would never be reality. At least not with her.

But one Sunday in July, I opened the newspaper to see her. A brief tryst of mine I’d all but locked away in my brittle heart. The woman that left me sobbing on my living room floor after she rode off into the sunrise on her motorcycle, never to be seen again.

We met at a birthday party in Phnom Penh, during my sojourn into expatriotism in Cambodia. To say Cambodia was devoid of lesbians was an understatement. At best count there were only 10 or so. And even then, they were mostly partnered off. But there she was and there I was. We sat awkwardly unsure as whether to call out the other. And finally it slipped out “My ex-GIRLfriend”. We both stopped dead in our tracks and giggled. Now that it was out in the open, we spoke openly about the women we had left at home. The frustration that we felt being gay in Cambodia, our experiences at various upper echelon institutes of higher education.

And that was that. Three blissful months of speaking an odd mixture of Khmer, French and English all while gallivanting around on motorcycles. We ran errands together. Spent time entangled in sheets speaking whispers of dreams. We argued over topics of philanthropy, NGO policy, water distribution issues and much more. I took care of her during a delerious fever; fed her soup and made the compresses. All the while, I knew I was but the fill-in housewife. Knew there was a woman back stateside whom I could not even begin to compare to. This was a delusion, but one that we both bought into willingly.

We had thought we’d have more time. My plan had been to spend at least the following semester in Phnom Penh, but due to unforeseen circumstances I was leaving on New Year’s Eve. She was leaving before Christmas and wouldn’t be home until after I had left.

The morning came for her to return home for the holidays, and I knew I would soon be a distant memory. She said her goodbyes, kissed me, and rode away…..

And now, nearly two years later, there she was, smiling ear to ear with her now wife, printed on millions of copies of the Times. Both were dressed in white with the Northern California ocean as their picturesque backdrop. The article read something like this: "Lady A and Lady B wed in San Francisco among friends and family. Lady A (my lady) is the daughter of Viscount A and the late Viscountess A".

Well, shit was all I could think to mutter.

The woman who left me alone in Cambodia with my heart all but shattered was god damned French royalty.