His inwardness exasperated her, his disorganization made her vent in hours-long phone calls while the listener stirred on a chicken soup – i.e., her mother living in Long Island.
But every time she heard him sliding under the duvet at night, trying not to wake her up even if he still smelled like walnuts and pecans, she knew there was nothing she wouldn’t do for him.
Remember warm lines,
Lapping over the sunlight,
Mother’s hands disclose.
Photo by Cecile Hournau on Unsplash
To Camille, there were two types of people: those who sat slovenly on the sunny side of the bench and those who squeezed under the shade of the tree.
Despite those around her see her crouching over her laptop with frowned forehead and bitten lower lip, she sometimes stops her focus on writing to wonder over e-commerce websites, filling up shopping carts she wouldn’t buy.
He tried to hold on the floor with his nails, but its surface was so polished that he miserably slipped on it. He found himself flat on the floor, a force pulling him from the back prevented him from standing up. He started screaming as loud as he could, but no one around could care.
Why causing me such a big pain?
He turned his head, that little motherfucker laughing, enjoying pulling his tail like nothing else in the world.
Then miraculously, a voice from above:
“Jim, leave the cat alone and come have dinner please”.
“That’s easy, if the word ends with a vowel, put an accent on it”
Her friend looked back to the Paris map perplexed, hoping they would have meet enough people with a good English in the week to come.
She could not help her eyes falling on her cleavage – her breasts were too big to not notice them, the girl caught her sight and hinted a smile “It’s all mine love, no plastic, touch it”. It was not really her intention but she grabbed her hand and forced her to verify she was not lying.