Smut & Filth. Chapter eleven.

"Lost In Translation".


The sun’s golden fingers crept through the narrow gaps in the shutters and crawled their lazy way slowly across the floor, reaching out to where the fledgling lovers continued to sleep like spoons. The golden beams reached her face first, waking her gently. She’d dreamt of him, a dream that included words that she wished had been spoken in the real world.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, she lifted his wrist and rolled away from his embrace.

“The dog did it,” He mumbled, again allowing his subconscious to escape his lips. She shook her head and smiled. She could live with him talking in his sleep occasionally. Thank heavens he didn’t snore, she thought. She hated snorers.

Once showered and dressed, with her hair held back by a band and whilst he still slumbered, she slipped quietly out of the apartment and stepped into the bright, early morning sunshine.

The previous evening’s tempest had heralded the beginning of the summer, and the sun burned the pale skin on her neck as she made her way to the boulangerie she’d spotted from his window.

The little bell attached to the door ting-tinged as she walked into the little shop. She’d marched straight up to the counter before realising she couldn’t speak the language and had no idea how to ask for what she wanted.

What was the French word for croissant?

“Ca va?” The young man behind the counter greeted her.
“Oh, erm, bonjour. Can I avez un, ermm,” She pointed at the croissants.

“Croissant?” The young man asked. Thank heavens, she thought, he can speak English.

“Oui, four.” The young man placed one in a bag and handed it to her.

“Non, four.” She smiled. He looked confused. “Four, erm, une et une et une et une.” She held up four fingers.

She had no idea how much the young man asked for so she paid with a ten Euro note and just assumed the change was correct. Proud of herself for her mastery of a foreign language she strutted back to the apartment, exchanging friendly bonjours with everyone she passed.

He was showering when she returned, so she placed the croissants in the little oven and put a pan of water on the gas ring before picking his coat up from the rug in front of the log burner and hanging it over the back of the small, whicker armchair that stood in the corner. Something heavy in the pocket struck the wall. She put her hand in and withdrew a mobile phone, realising that, for the first time in years, she’d not so much as looked at her own phone for days.

The screen lit up to reveal the notifications that had silently appeared overnight and gone unchecked. She slipped the phone back into the pocket from which she’d removed it without reading them then, as a reward for being so good and for respecting his privacy, she took the phone back out of the pocket and allowed herself to read them.

“I got your gift, it’s lovely…”

“When am I going to see you…”

“Good morning, beautiful…”

All from the same contact, Michelle. Her head swam and she placed the phone onto the seat..


The sound of the shower stopped and she heard him singing, badly, in the bathroom. She wanted to cry, what a fucking idiot she’d been. Grabbing the small suitcase that she’d brought with her she headed back out and into the sunshine.


Continue to next chapter.

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