We told one another sweet and tender things in French, something far removed from our mother tongue. It didn’t seem as scary in a different language, the laying open of hearts for potential flayings and seemingly terminal papercuts. She had a firm grasp of the language; educated and smooth, flowing easily from her ridiculously perfect lips. My French, on the other hand, was clunky, angular and something akin to an accidental gang rape. If a native speaker had to endure the sounds that poured out of me for even one minute I’m sure that would be my last day on Earth.
But she humored me, and I was capable of understanding only about 5% of what she was saying. In fact, she could have been telling me how to make chicken potpie while I stumbled through trying to tell her that she tasted like sunshine dust.
Whatever the case, we made it work and we worked together, it was ours and it felt nothing short of righteous.
No comments:
Post a Comment