Everybody's buzzing around downstairs but we couldn't care less. We don't want to leave the bed. We are making out like our lives depend on it. It's like we're catching up the years. I feel his skin, watch his smile, hear his breathing. I take everything in.
After a while, I hear steps, the wood cracking. My mum's coming upstairs. I'm not worried, my mum pops Champagne corks every time she hears I made out with someone. But this time I should be. To my utter surprise, she is not happy but furious! "What are you doing? What is he doing here?" and a thousand of other questions explode in the room soon followed by "Get out of here, I don't want you in my house". Words that I have never heard or thought I would hear from my mum.
I am so chocked I can hardly react. But I don't really care (1) I just want to stay in his arms. After a while, I do realise that having your mother screaming at you is not helping when you tried to relax in bed, with your boyfriend. So we leave. One last look at the beige painted house sitting on a fake smallish hill under which is the garage and we're out of the street. And I'm out of this dream.
(1) Sorry mum!
I spent my childhood between two small Normand villages. One has less than 500 inhabitants, the second one, less than 1000.
ReplyDeleteI arrived at the second one in the middle of primary school. It was a small class with around 10 kids of my age. Amongst them was a brown haired boy. We never were neither friends nor enemy. I think he was a bit weary of girls as a kid and I couldn't care less about him or others. Through their roles in the village, our parents became friends but he never came to my house. Until last night.