"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..
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