I showed you that song. I showed you 'this'. You repeated the words after me. I couldn't help but think, when I said, 'this feeling and this girl' of you. You were standing in front of me and it's the closest I'll get to telling you, probably. Because you're not a girl, and I'm just past being one. I came home at eight tonight. I could have stayed where I was longer, but I wanted to talk to you and I wanted to be tired. I would have loved nothing more than to come in and wind myself up in your arms and your soft skin, stroke your hair. Envelop you like a blanket. I was cold and tired, and I wanted you. I couldn't have you in my arms, so I basked in your smile instead and smoked with you and taught you, seeing the words I say interpreted in your mouth.
I said you were 'touchante, engageante,attachante' when you lisp in English. You're lovely. You said, 'et on fait des bisous' and we did tonight, one on each cheek. Why, I wonder? Why some nights? I will have to do this more for you. Do you know you're beautiful? Probably not. Maybe you think you were, a while ago. You sometimes say, 'ca ne me fait pas trop jeune fille?' when you wear a dress, and you let slip the odd thing. I tell you there are lots of fish in the sea. I don't tell you that I'd like to be the one you're angling for. I don't say, 'do you know you're lovely, with your gossamer blonde hair and your eyes that light up, so dark and so vivid, and your soft skin that's so smooth and so warm, and your straight teeth and your mouth when you laugh with your lips so finely and sensibly cut, so French? Do you know your cheekbones and your skinny arms and legs make me worried, that I yearn to stroke your little stomach, especially when you admonish yourself for it, and that you're undeniably chic, and that the way you move, graceful and bouncing, is so endearing?'. I don't say those things. I smile. I quote poetry and songs. Those are ways of saying what I mean. Et sangloter d'extase les jets d'eau, les grands jets d'eau sveltes parmi les marbres. That's how I feel for you. I'm sobbing for joy (though I never say that and wouldn't want to, it's far too pretentious), energy amid something classic and strong. That's what I feel. You say I've given you a new taste for Verlaine. I want to give you English poetry. I want to give you poetry about beautiful women, not arrogant, condescending mockery designed to get women into bed (like the first poem I learned- why did you choose that one, why? Accroupie is so harsh). I want to give you something to show you how beautiful you are, darling.
Thursday, 8 December 2011
Saturday, 19 November 2011
Elle me dit
Que je suis belle avec mes taches de rousseur. I can't work out whether she likes me around or whether she thinks I should get a life because twenty five year olds don't hang about with sixty eight year olds. But I want to hang about with her. Today I could have gone out earlier, I could have seen people- but I didn't want to, because she's the most interesting. I come home for lunch because I like talking to her, I go out with her because she's interesting to see things with, I don't know whether she feels like it's too much. I hope not. She mentioned that A seemed to be here all the time and always returned- I hope she doesn't think I'm like that too. I don't want to be cloying.
I think that she might want someone to care for. She worries about A because he doesn't like the food here, because he doesn't want to absorb Paris. And she likes helping people absorb things, maybe too forcefully- she can't accept that there are other ways of doing things. She wants to be the best at the alliance, and she worries. And I worry too. I worry about her coming back at the usual time that she comes back and waking her when I'm loud and clattery and whether she's OK if I hear banging in one of the houses joined to us, and whether she's alright on the tube. Though she always is. I worry because I like her. And she said she worried about me, when I didn't come home until really late one night- she worried. I thought that was lovely.
Today, she rolled my hair into a chignon and said, 'tell me if it hurts' when she put in the open-ended grips. It didn't because she's very gentle. She showed me her powder and brushed it onto my face and smiled. She's so willing to share things, her coat, her shoes... and I don't find it irritating because she's kind and French and a bit of a know it all, but lovely with it. It's odd, not to find this brand of care irritating- but I don't, yet. I don't know whether she thinks of me as a gangling sort of person that needs a helping hand, or a replacement for her daughters, or a living doll that it's interesting to be around, or someone she can mould, or someone she can be kind to. Or all of those things.
She's so brave and so easily hurt. She goes to teach in a place for teens with problems, and a girl had a hard time the other day- and R felt bad about it, I knew, because she mentioned it three times. Partly because she was worried about the girl, and partly because of the language she used. She didn't go into detail, she simply said that it was 'grossier'. And oh, how I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her she was strong and brave, and for that so sensitive... and that I wanted desperately to protect her from these things, even though she's independent and lives and wants to do them. Not protect, I don't want her to stop doing what she likes, I just want to give her a safe place, to comfort her when things aren't what she wants them to be. And she's fun. She runs round museums with me and makes me laugh and wonders at the displays that are like fireworks and says, 'it makes me sad because I know it'll soon be gone'. In France, I feel like people are always saying small things that give away their personalities. She fears things going, and braves it all the same. She told me I could go if I ever found something that suited me more, and I said thanks, and that she could tell me to go if she needed her own space back- because maybe she does need it back sometimes. She doesn't mention her husband. Her children come, sometimes- less often than she'd like. She was sad when her first daughter left home.
We've started to have habits together. At least, they've become habits for me. I go to her room and watch TV, she comments along in French and asks if I understand. She cooks, with my help, and I help her wash up. We go shopping and I take the bags. If one of us eats an apple, we usually offer the other person the other half. The same applies to chocolate and cake, and anything we cook. We sit in the kitchen and eat. We laugh about my habit of eating a ridiculous amount of cake and analyse A's behaviour. She puts my hair in a chignon, when I ask. We drink tea in the evening and usually smoke a cigarette together at least once a day. We don't speak on the tube; we read companiably. I recite poetry, she corrects, I repeat the corrections. When we're especially pleased with each other, we give each other a peck on the cheek. I did this the other day before departing for school, and she said, 'ah, tu es gentille'. I've got a friend that lost her hair, and she'd just spoken about losing her hair once, and how people think it's something else and how the back of her head looks like a pig's skin (it doesn't. But I wouldn't care if it did). We begin to call each other, in the style of Sherlock Holmes, 'ma chere', before each of our names. We do this in a Sherlock-Holmes tone, but I am meaning it differently. And she'll never know. But at least she's got someone who's appreciating her, albeit furtively, and expressing it without romance.
I think that she might want someone to care for. She worries about A because he doesn't like the food here, because he doesn't want to absorb Paris. And she likes helping people absorb things, maybe too forcefully- she can't accept that there are other ways of doing things. She wants to be the best at the alliance, and she worries. And I worry too. I worry about her coming back at the usual time that she comes back and waking her when I'm loud and clattery and whether she's OK if I hear banging in one of the houses joined to us, and whether she's alright on the tube. Though she always is. I worry because I like her. And she said she worried about me, when I didn't come home until really late one night- she worried. I thought that was lovely.
Today, she rolled my hair into a chignon and said, 'tell me if it hurts' when she put in the open-ended grips. It didn't because she's very gentle. She showed me her powder and brushed it onto my face and smiled. She's so willing to share things, her coat, her shoes... and I don't find it irritating because she's kind and French and a bit of a know it all, but lovely with it. It's odd, not to find this brand of care irritating- but I don't, yet. I don't know whether she thinks of me as a gangling sort of person that needs a helping hand, or a replacement for her daughters, or a living doll that it's interesting to be around, or someone she can mould, or someone she can be kind to. Or all of those things.
She's so brave and so easily hurt. She goes to teach in a place for teens with problems, and a girl had a hard time the other day- and R felt bad about it, I knew, because she mentioned it three times. Partly because she was worried about the girl, and partly because of the language she used. She didn't go into detail, she simply said that it was 'grossier'. And oh, how I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her she was strong and brave, and for that so sensitive... and that I wanted desperately to protect her from these things, even though she's independent and lives and wants to do them. Not protect, I don't want her to stop doing what she likes, I just want to give her a safe place, to comfort her when things aren't what she wants them to be. And she's fun. She runs round museums with me and makes me laugh and wonders at the displays that are like fireworks and says, 'it makes me sad because I know it'll soon be gone'. In France, I feel like people are always saying small things that give away their personalities. She fears things going, and braves it all the same. She told me I could go if I ever found something that suited me more, and I said thanks, and that she could tell me to go if she needed her own space back- because maybe she does need it back sometimes. She doesn't mention her husband. Her children come, sometimes- less often than she'd like. She was sad when her first daughter left home.
We've started to have habits together. At least, they've become habits for me. I go to her room and watch TV, she comments along in French and asks if I understand. She cooks, with my help, and I help her wash up. We go shopping and I take the bags. If one of us eats an apple, we usually offer the other person the other half. The same applies to chocolate and cake, and anything we cook. We sit in the kitchen and eat. We laugh about my habit of eating a ridiculous amount of cake and analyse A's behaviour. She puts my hair in a chignon, when I ask. We drink tea in the evening and usually smoke a cigarette together at least once a day. We don't speak on the tube; we read companiably. I recite poetry, she corrects, I repeat the corrections. When we're especially pleased with each other, we give each other a peck on the cheek. I did this the other day before departing for school, and she said, 'ah, tu es gentille'. I've got a friend that lost her hair, and she'd just spoken about losing her hair once, and how people think it's something else and how the back of her head looks like a pig's skin (it doesn't. But I wouldn't care if it did). We begin to call each other, in the style of Sherlock Holmes, 'ma chere', before each of our names. We do this in a Sherlock-Holmes tone, but I am meaning it differently. And she'll never know. But at least she's got someone who's appreciating her, albeit furtively, and expressing it without romance.
Tuesday, 8 November 2011
You're so nice and you're so smart...
And an awful lot older than me, even by my standards. I can't quite work out whether I want to hold you because I like you like that or because you try so very hard for everyone and sometimes your back aches, and you want so much to give and to keep things nice and to keep your house perfect and accueillant but without realising that these are sometimes opposites.
You don't notice my haircut, and you are pernickety and worry too much. Though I find that endearing. It's nice to have someone worry about me in ways I'm not used to having people worry about me. I want to hold your hand and kiss the place on your head where you had the tumour taken out. I want to curl around you and hold you tight and stroke your hair and tell you, 'tu es intelligente, tu es gentille, tu es importante'. I don't think you get told that enough, and you should be because you are all of those things. I would also tell you, 'tu es courageuse'. It hurts me when you're hurt, when your son doesn't come to see you for very long, when your daughter leaves early when you've prepared dinner- and you say, 'ah, but this is the way, and it's nice they have their own lives, and one must accept it'. It seems so unfair to me that someone as good as you should have to accept something so painful, and I think it's the reason for your perfect crockery and your neat-as-a-pin household- though you don't mind if I break things, you're careful, careful, careful. Maybe because people aren't always careful with you; so I want to be. I want to be on your side, I want to be kind to you and nice to you and je ne veux pas me moquer de toi, parce que tu m'es importante. Because you are kind to me, you worry about me and you try to teach me. I can see you being inadvertently hurt where no hurt's intended; when I teach French to the Houseguest, for example.
I like having our own language that we both speak. I like having a code with you, and I like having access into your head that he doesn't have, because he doesn't see this other side of your personality, this nuanced, educated side; he just sees someone who hates America and is pedantic, and kind, who wants to feed him. You're those things, but you're also clever and modest and interesting and you come out with the wisest things... I wonder if you tell me because you think I don't understand yet, quite? Or maybe you think I understand all too well. What was it you said today? 'Don't be worried about acting and breaking something; it happens frequently that people don't act and don't ruin anything, but then they never act. You acted with best intentions'. About me feeling foolish after greeting someone. 'Sometimes, the thing that is a person's downfall is also their greatest charm'. Oddly, it's not when you're teaching that you come out with these brilliant gnomic turns of phrase, but when we're sitting in the kitchen and I'm fretting and you're comforting me. Or just when you're thinking about life.
I wish, if MM isn't doing it already, that I could make someone you want love you. You deserve that.
If not, I wish I could make your children spend more time with you. You're fun and interesting and not tiresome at all. You deserve that, too.
And if not, I want to hold you and tell you you're brilliant. You deserve, at the least, that. You don't wear your wedding ring. Tonight I washed up, because you were in a rush; you'd cooked everything, and you came up to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, 'pour que tu fais la vaisselle'. So sweetly done, and it made me smile. We don't usually do the kiss. I don't mind doing it with you, though. Or B. I'm getting used to it.
You deserve a lot. And all I can do is attempt to keep my space tidy, not make too much noise, write notes to you, observe when you might want to be left alone and learn poetry; half of these things please me anyway.
You don't notice my haircut, and you are pernickety and worry too much. Though I find that endearing. It's nice to have someone worry about me in ways I'm not used to having people worry about me. I want to hold your hand and kiss the place on your head where you had the tumour taken out. I want to curl around you and hold you tight and stroke your hair and tell you, 'tu es intelligente, tu es gentille, tu es importante'. I don't think you get told that enough, and you should be because you are all of those things. I would also tell you, 'tu es courageuse'. It hurts me when you're hurt, when your son doesn't come to see you for very long, when your daughter leaves early when you've prepared dinner- and you say, 'ah, but this is the way, and it's nice they have their own lives, and one must accept it'. It seems so unfair to me that someone as good as you should have to accept something so painful, and I think it's the reason for your perfect crockery and your neat-as-a-pin household- though you don't mind if I break things, you're careful, careful, careful. Maybe because people aren't always careful with you; so I want to be. I want to be on your side, I want to be kind to you and nice to you and je ne veux pas me moquer de toi, parce que tu m'es importante. Because you are kind to me, you worry about me and you try to teach me. I can see you being inadvertently hurt where no hurt's intended; when I teach French to the Houseguest, for example.
I like having our own language that we both speak. I like having a code with you, and I like having access into your head that he doesn't have, because he doesn't see this other side of your personality, this nuanced, educated side; he just sees someone who hates America and is pedantic, and kind, who wants to feed him. You're those things, but you're also clever and modest and interesting and you come out with the wisest things... I wonder if you tell me because you think I don't understand yet, quite? Or maybe you think I understand all too well. What was it you said today? 'Don't be worried about acting and breaking something; it happens frequently that people don't act and don't ruin anything, but then they never act. You acted with best intentions'. About me feeling foolish after greeting someone. 'Sometimes, the thing that is a person's downfall is also their greatest charm'. Oddly, it's not when you're teaching that you come out with these brilliant gnomic turns of phrase, but when we're sitting in the kitchen and I'm fretting and you're comforting me. Or just when you're thinking about life.
I wish, if MM isn't doing it already, that I could make someone you want love you. You deserve that.
If not, I wish I could make your children spend more time with you. You're fun and interesting and not tiresome at all. You deserve that, too.
And if not, I want to hold you and tell you you're brilliant. You deserve, at the least, that. You don't wear your wedding ring. Tonight I washed up, because you were in a rush; you'd cooked everything, and you came up to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, 'pour que tu fais la vaisselle'. So sweetly done, and it made me smile. We don't usually do the kiss. I don't mind doing it with you, though. Or B. I'm getting used to it.
You deserve a lot. And all I can do is attempt to keep my space tidy, not make too much noise, write notes to you, observe when you might want to be left alone and learn poetry; half of these things please me anyway.
Friday, 21 October 2011
Criteria for success are easier to grasp in a new country.
Which is brilliant. I've just returned from a night with the French; I didn't understand everything when the music was blaring, but I understood enough to respond sufficiently. And hopefully tomorrow we'll do it again. I just worry about losing my German. And gaining ridiculous amounts of weight, because I've already put on a bit. And losing the class in seconde, because they're chatty.
That said, I do like the class in seconde. I think they're still enjoyable to work with. I will associate more with the Germans so as not to lose my German completely. And I'll bike more and eat more vegetables to stop gaining weight. Done. I'm on it.
Oooh. Il faut que j'elle donne un nom secret... the doer of good deeds? That's what her name means. The bringer of luck? She always says it's luck. It's luck that she found me a flatshare with someone lovely, it's luck that she's potentially found me a tutoring job, it's luck... it's lucky that I met her. Out of all the lycees in Paris, I happened to fall upon one with a responsable who smokes weed, who introduces me to everyone I want to know and wants to chat to me and offers me her sofa for a week when I'm desperate... and, of course, whom I fancy desperately. That's not exactly a quote from Casonova. I saw someone tonight with long, thick, dark hair and thought 'oooh... it's you'. Even though it wasn't, I couldn't take my eyes off the girl. Same posture, same build. And it wasn't, at all. Though there are those remarkable features that I remark in others, her nose, her hair, her face. Her eyes are never the same; I asked her once, 'tes yeux, ils sont les couleurs differents, n'est ce pas?'. Apparently not, but it seems so to me.
I saw her today and we spent an hour correcting French children. She's wonderful when she speaks English, but she doesn't think so. I think she knows deep down, but she doesn't know how fantastic she is. Her class was so easy to be in... I just float about and do whatever I want to with the children, and sometimes she asks me to come with her because she's unsure of how to express something. But she doesn't try to cover it up, she simply asks, and that's brilliant in itself. No artificial edifices. And she goes to staff dos and integrates, speaks to everyone and doesn't bat an eyelid. She was cold. I went to smoke with the surveillantes, and she appeared towards the end. She shivered and stepped from foot to foot in her boots. I was wearing a duffel coat and my scarf, and my woolly hat. I wanted nothing more than to scoop her up and wrap my coat around her. Ha. It would be difficult to do alone, yet alone with a group of people. I just watched her, being beautiful and needing a coat. Hopefully I'll see her in the holidays. I want to sit on her sofa again and dire des ragots, just to mimic her posture and elle donne le soulagement. Ah, elle est si jolie qu'on faut tomber... I don't know if that's the exact expression.
That said, I do like the class in seconde. I think they're still enjoyable to work with. I will associate more with the Germans so as not to lose my German completely. And I'll bike more and eat more vegetables to stop gaining weight. Done. I'm on it.
Oooh. Il faut que j'elle donne un nom secret... the doer of good deeds? That's what her name means. The bringer of luck? She always says it's luck. It's luck that she found me a flatshare with someone lovely, it's luck that she's potentially found me a tutoring job, it's luck... it's lucky that I met her. Out of all the lycees in Paris, I happened to fall upon one with a responsable who smokes weed, who introduces me to everyone I want to know and wants to chat to me and offers me her sofa for a week when I'm desperate... and, of course, whom I fancy desperately. That's not exactly a quote from Casonova. I saw someone tonight with long, thick, dark hair and thought 'oooh... it's you'. Even though it wasn't, I couldn't take my eyes off the girl. Same posture, same build. And it wasn't, at all. Though there are those remarkable features that I remark in others, her nose, her hair, her face. Her eyes are never the same; I asked her once, 'tes yeux, ils sont les couleurs differents, n'est ce pas?'. Apparently not, but it seems so to me.
I saw her today and we spent an hour correcting French children. She's wonderful when she speaks English, but she doesn't think so. I think she knows deep down, but she doesn't know how fantastic she is. Her class was so easy to be in... I just float about and do whatever I want to with the children, and sometimes she asks me to come with her because she's unsure of how to express something. But she doesn't try to cover it up, she simply asks, and that's brilliant in itself. No artificial edifices. And she goes to staff dos and integrates, speaks to everyone and doesn't bat an eyelid. She was cold. I went to smoke with the surveillantes, and she appeared towards the end. She shivered and stepped from foot to foot in her boots. I was wearing a duffel coat and my scarf, and my woolly hat. I wanted nothing more than to scoop her up and wrap my coat around her. Ha. It would be difficult to do alone, yet alone with a group of people. I just watched her, being beautiful and needing a coat. Hopefully I'll see her in the holidays. I want to sit on her sofa again and dire des ragots, just to mimic her posture and elle donne le soulagement. Ah, elle est si jolie qu'on faut tomber... I don't know if that's the exact expression.
Thursday, 13 October 2011
I've been drawing you wrong
When I looked at your face tonight, I tried to remember it so that I could commit it to paper. You don't know that you're my muse. The things that I remember are your pointy chin and your nose (you say it's a witch's nose, that they meet, but this isn't true). Her nose is long and straight and her chin's pointed. I've been drawing her face broader than it is. I put in the cheekbones, the eyebrows close to her eyes that make them so expressive. She's short and I manage her hair; long, dark, straight, that catches the light with a central parting with a kink in it. Someone said to me 'si belle qu'on faut tomber'. Or something like that. It's not the direct translation, and I've got it wrong... so pretty one could fall to the floor. That's her, for me at least.
All the world probably thinks she's pretty. Between pretty and beautiful. Attractive, desirable (she worries that she isn't because she's been told she isn't by those she adores). That's not true. She is most certainly pretty, attractive; I thought so the first time I saw her, and now I think she's the most beautiful thing... I wish she could know it. At least that she's pretty. In my first week I told her, because she said he'd said she wasn't, that she was desirable. That someone would want her. In fact, I want her. I find her desirable. I wouldn't tell her that making love to her was a matrimonial duty.
All the world probably thinks she's pretty. Between pretty and beautiful. Attractive, desirable (she worries that she isn't because she's been told she isn't by those she adores). That's not true. She is most certainly pretty, attractive; I thought so the first time I saw her, and now I think she's the most beautiful thing... I wish she could know it. At least that she's pretty. In my first week I told her, because she said he'd said she wasn't, that she was desirable. That someone would want her. In fact, I want her. I find her desirable. I wouldn't tell her that making love to her was a matrimonial duty.
Beaucoup de choses cette semaine, mais tu es si belle et si triste que ca m'empeche de faire des betises comme toujours.
Things I have done this week:
1. The first group at the lycee.
2. Translated a CV into English.
3. Fait la fete with the Germans.
4. Seen a French film that was incredibly French. This pleases me. Listening in snatches is far easier when you don't have to respond constantly, even if it is hard.
5. Found the bin place in the underground cavern.
I adore my job, and I adore Paris. I can't stop thinking about how she's sad at the moment, and it's not her usual way. It's because of traumatic life events. I don't think she wants me to be around, but it is difficult to tell. I went to see her tonight and she looked rested but distracted. She walks me to the bus stop as if we're small children, as if we're reliant and need each other; I haven't done this since I was small, walking along step in step, halfway between both our houses to check the other person's safe though there's no need any more, because we already both are. We are grown ups, I am used to going around at five in the morning on my own, she's got children... but I like it all the same, and I wish I could give her that feeling, of being watched over. She told me about her aunt dying, and I asked what she did in the day, and I think she thought this was a change of conversational topic when it wasn't, really. She said she was crying very easily. This happens when she stops smoking or is just generally feeling emotional.
There are so many times when I just want to take her in my arms and kiss her forehead and stroke her hair, to tell her that she is beautiful and I can't comprehend that she would ever have believed otherwise. When she cries especially. 'Don't be scared of me crying', she says, but I'm not. I just want so desperately to hold her till she's finished and make her feel safe. This wouldn't solve everything, and it probably wouldn't work; maybe it would if the man she's seeing did it. She has a tendency to throw herself after people that don't return much; or they do return it, but via giving things, for parties, via skirts and shoes and doing things around the house. Maybe this is what she wants. I can't provide financially; I can assemble things, but I can't do advanced plumbing, I can clean. I like doing things for her. But it doesn't matter, because she adores him, and the biggest thing that makes her adore him is probably the way that he is superficially kind but tells her what to do (even if it's not what she wants to hear, it's someone in the driving seat) and that he doesn't return affection. Maybe if he did, she wouldn't want him so much. And this is the area in which I would fail the most, because when I fall I fall hard, and I can't stop myself from adoring. It's not always what people want, though.
1. The first group at the lycee.
2. Translated a CV into English.
3. Fait la fete with the Germans.
4. Seen a French film that was incredibly French. This pleases me. Listening in snatches is far easier when you don't have to respond constantly, even if it is hard.
5. Found the bin place in the underground cavern.
I adore my job, and I adore Paris. I can't stop thinking about how she's sad at the moment, and it's not her usual way. It's because of traumatic life events. I don't think she wants me to be around, but it is difficult to tell. I went to see her tonight and she looked rested but distracted. She walks me to the bus stop as if we're small children, as if we're reliant and need each other; I haven't done this since I was small, walking along step in step, halfway between both our houses to check the other person's safe though there's no need any more, because we already both are. We are grown ups, I am used to going around at five in the morning on my own, she's got children... but I like it all the same, and I wish I could give her that feeling, of being watched over. She told me about her aunt dying, and I asked what she did in the day, and I think she thought this was a change of conversational topic when it wasn't, really. She said she was crying very easily. This happens when she stops smoking or is just generally feeling emotional.
There are so many times when I just want to take her in my arms and kiss her forehead and stroke her hair, to tell her that she is beautiful and I can't comprehend that she would ever have believed otherwise. When she cries especially. 'Don't be scared of me crying', she says, but I'm not. I just want so desperately to hold her till she's finished and make her feel safe. This wouldn't solve everything, and it probably wouldn't work; maybe it would if the man she's seeing did it. She has a tendency to throw herself after people that don't return much; or they do return it, but via giving things, for parties, via skirts and shoes and doing things around the house. Maybe this is what she wants. I can't provide financially; I can assemble things, but I can't do advanced plumbing, I can clean. I like doing things for her. But it doesn't matter, because she adores him, and the biggest thing that makes her adore him is probably the way that he is superficially kind but tells her what to do (even if it's not what she wants to hear, it's someone in the driving seat) and that he doesn't return affection. Maybe if he did, she wouldn't want him so much. And this is the area in which I would fail the most, because when I fall I fall hard, and I can't stop myself from adoring. It's not always what people want, though.
Thursday, 6 October 2011
I can't believe I'm here... a Paris.
C'est ca.
Incroyable.
And I've hitched myself to someone unlikely, someone I can't be sure of or confident in, someone that is impossibly devoted to someone she shouldn't be. And yet, je ne peux pas m'empecher de me bouger pour lui.
It takes three short weeks for me to fall. Coup de foudre. Maybe it's because I'm in a foreign country. It happened a lot with the men at the shelter; they'd go for the first available person, because they were desperate for some sort of connection, and the romantic one is the easiest and hardest to make. Easiest because you can have anyone if you're desperate enough, but if no one else will do it's exceedingly difficult. Currently, no one else will do. She's wonderful.
I know she's not perfect. I know full well that she is selfish and narcissistic, and bitchy like I am, and I can't trust her to do the right thing because she doesn't want to look at the hardest things within her own life. But she's so lovely. She is open and generous, and sweet without being saccharine, and shares her secrets so readily. Of course I've fallen head over heels for someone funny and kind and strong in situations I can't be strong in. Of course she's beautiful. When I first saw her coming round the corner of the accueil, I thought she was pretty. Reasonable. Chic. Well-kept. And now I think she's beautiful, the most beautiful in the world. As always, as always. This crept up on me slowly; from liking being around her, to being wary of falling for her, to actually falling for her. Well, nothing is going to happen. I'll just have to ride it out.
She was sad today because someone's dying in her family, and although they are old and it's for the best, and she knows this because, if one is French, one is always to the point, she was tired from the long trip and from feeling too much for too long. All I wanted to do as she recounted the history to me was to wrap her up in my arms, kiss her forehead and stroke her hair. I listened instead, and touched her elbow. We sat on her sofa together, both slouched in crouching posture- legs tucked under, facing each other, arms round legs, leaning on the back of the sofa- mirror images, but how I wished we were touching instead. She'd said she was tired in the day at school; I wanted to take her hand (smoker's hands with gallic, tanned skin, that look weathered but not as old as mine) and lead her to her bedroom, and just sleep there. Just lull her to sleep, leaning against me with her soft body and her sharp French cheekbones. Her eyes are almost the same colour as her skin, but they glow green or sometimes blue. I would like to hold her and tell her that, contrary to what she's heard from vicious sources, she's so beautiful. I may not think that she is perfect, but I will always think that she looks perfect. Her hair, her face, her body that she doesn't feel OK with, it's all perfect. I want someone to tell her that would make her smile, lift her worried eyebrows, make the sun shine out of her face as it does. Her face is as evident as the weather. As obvious, as easy. It's just the thoughts that are difficult to conjugate. I adore her.
Incroyable.
And I've hitched myself to someone unlikely, someone I can't be sure of or confident in, someone that is impossibly devoted to someone she shouldn't be. And yet, je ne peux pas m'empecher de me bouger pour lui.
It takes three short weeks for me to fall. Coup de foudre. Maybe it's because I'm in a foreign country. It happened a lot with the men at the shelter; they'd go for the first available person, because they were desperate for some sort of connection, and the romantic one is the easiest and hardest to make. Easiest because you can have anyone if you're desperate enough, but if no one else will do it's exceedingly difficult. Currently, no one else will do. She's wonderful.
I know she's not perfect. I know full well that she is selfish and narcissistic, and bitchy like I am, and I can't trust her to do the right thing because she doesn't want to look at the hardest things within her own life. But she's so lovely. She is open and generous, and sweet without being saccharine, and shares her secrets so readily. Of course I've fallen head over heels for someone funny and kind and strong in situations I can't be strong in. Of course she's beautiful. When I first saw her coming round the corner of the accueil, I thought she was pretty. Reasonable. Chic. Well-kept. And now I think she's beautiful, the most beautiful in the world. As always, as always. This crept up on me slowly; from liking being around her, to being wary of falling for her, to actually falling for her. Well, nothing is going to happen. I'll just have to ride it out.
She was sad today because someone's dying in her family, and although they are old and it's for the best, and she knows this because, if one is French, one is always to the point, she was tired from the long trip and from feeling too much for too long. All I wanted to do as she recounted the history to me was to wrap her up in my arms, kiss her forehead and stroke her hair. I listened instead, and touched her elbow. We sat on her sofa together, both slouched in crouching posture- legs tucked under, facing each other, arms round legs, leaning on the back of the sofa- mirror images, but how I wished we were touching instead. She'd said she was tired in the day at school; I wanted to take her hand (smoker's hands with gallic, tanned skin, that look weathered but not as old as mine) and lead her to her bedroom, and just sleep there. Just lull her to sleep, leaning against me with her soft body and her sharp French cheekbones. Her eyes are almost the same colour as her skin, but they glow green or sometimes blue. I would like to hold her and tell her that, contrary to what she's heard from vicious sources, she's so beautiful. I may not think that she is perfect, but I will always think that she looks perfect. Her hair, her face, her body that she doesn't feel OK with, it's all perfect. I want someone to tell her that would make her smile, lift her worried eyebrows, make the sun shine out of her face as it does. Her face is as evident as the weather. As obvious, as easy. It's just the thoughts that are difficult to conjugate. I adore her.
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