Comedy Shorts - 2. Parlez-Vous... Non?

Liam had done the work. Three hundred and forty-two consecutive days on Duolingo. He had battled owls, survived more than 113 passive-aggressive push notifications, and conjugated more irregular verbs than anyone with a social life ever should. His phone buzzed with congratulatory confetti every time he nailed the subjunctive. He was, in his mind, basically French now. Maybe not native, but spiritually a Parisian with strong opinions on cheese and an unearned sense of superiority.

So when he landed in Paris for a solo vacation, his plan was simple: croissants by day, flirtatious conversation in smoky gay bars by night. He wanted to experience authenticity — preferably with someone named Julien who wore cologne and whispered “mon chou” into his ear between sips of overpriced wine.

His first destination that night: Le Croissant Mystérieux — a gay bar so trendy it didn’t even have a sign, just a single neon éclair glowing in existential despair above the door.

Wearing a vintage beret from Etsy and a striped shirt, he strutted in, chest out, pronunciation ready. He was going to speak French and make friends. Maybe even have a flirt. Or a flirtette. Or a flirtonade.

The crowd was devastatingly Parisian: angular jawlines, cigarettes smoked purely for effect, and precisely five men wearing scarves indoors. No one looked up. They were all too busy being observed not observing anyone.

Liam approached the bar and ordered confidently: “Un vin rouge, s’il vous plaît,” his R’s fluttering like an artsy baguette in the wind.

The bartender, a man whose cheekbones could cut glass and whose expression suggested permanent disappointment, gave a single, slow blink. Then he poured the wine without a word, slid it over, and drifted away like ennui in human form.

Liam turned to mingle. He tried smiling. He tried “bonsoir”. He even dropped a “vous venez souvent ici?” on a particularly aloof man in a velvet blazer. The man replied with a noise that might have been a snort or a political critique and then turned away — mid-breath — to dramatically light a cigarette with no flame.

It was devastating. He sidled up to a lip-pierced ballet dancer and whispered, “Salut, j’ai une grenouille dans mon sac à dos.”

The dancer blinked. Liam tried again: “J’aime les bibliothèques... très fort.”

Hours passed. Not a single human interaction. Liam’s inner monologue switched from hopeful flirtation to panicked diagnostics: “Did I say bonsoir wrong? Did I forget the nasal vowels? Is my cologne too cheerful? Did they sense the Duolingo?”

Eventually, perched in a corner nursing what was now a tepid glass of liquid regret, he spotted a guy — smiley, relaxed, wearing a T-shirt that said “J’aime les hommes et les frites”. Liam lit up. He approached him carefully, like a house cat stalking a glitter mouse.

“Salut! Je m’appelle Liam. Tu es très… euh… beau?” he offered, with the hopeful energy of a Labrador proposing marriage.

The man smiled warmly and replied in rapid-fire French, a flurry of syllables that included slang, at least one obscenity, and a reference to something called a “plan Q.”

Liam blinked.

“Je… uh… je ne comprends pas. Peux-tu répéter?” he asked.

The man obliged — at twice the speed. There were hand gestures. There was winkage. There was a reference to a night bus.

Liam nodded slowly, like someone trying to assemble IKEA furniture using only vibes.

After a pause, he took a long sip of his wine, smiled, and said softly: “Oui.”

Then the man disappeared to the restroom and never came back.

Liam was left with his glass, his crushed confidence, and a profound realization: this was not the realm of Duolingo owls and tourist-friendly menus. This was the realm of chic detachment and conversational minimalism. Parisians didn’t speak in bars. They smoldered silently while radiating judgment.

And so, Liam adapted.

He finished his wine, crossed his legs elegantly, and stared into the middle distance like he’d just killed God and was now haunted by the consequences. When a stranger caught his eye and nodded, Liam did not wave or speak.

He simply nodded back. Once. Slowly. Like he understood the weight of history.

In that moment, Liam wasn’t a Duolingo graduate.

He was Parisian.