B r a d   R o s e


While Touring America, Marcel Marceau, Dining at the Des Moines IHOP, Realizes His Cruel Father, Who Forced Him to Train as a Mime, Wasn’t Such a Bad Fellow, After All.

Sitting all alone in that big leather booth at the other end of the International House of Pancakes, she runs her tongue over her fire-engine red, top lip.

Mon Dieu! How dreamy that lip must feel, how maple-syrupy sweet it must taste. Any fool—even if he is deaf, dumb, and blind—can see that she's très jolie. She’s obviously very sophisticated—she’s ordered the ‘Toast Française.’

This is definitely ‘love at first sight,’ as these frivolous Americans say. But from the other end of this dreadful restaurant, how will I ever show her how very, very much I’m in love with her?

























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