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October 25-26, 1991
Oct. 27th, 2012 07:57 pm"Don't feel like you have to wait up," Alain says.
"Don't feel like you have to get into too much trouble," Meg replies.
They've got very different Friday evenings planned. Alain is off to his friend Jérôme's bachelor party, and Meg has a new murder mystery and a spot on the couch.
Alain leans down to kiss his wife's cheek. "I promise I won't have to call you to come post bail."
"Well, I promise to come post it if you do."
"And I'd pay you back later?"
"In ways you can't imagine," Meg says cheerfully, and Alain laughs. "Have fun."
"You, too."
After he's left, though, Meg has a hard time focusing on her book. Partly because she's two chapters in and fairly certain the cousin did it, and while she supposes that could be a red herring, she's also fairly certain it's not. And partly because she's just not quite in the mood to read.
She's also not remotely in the mood to study, which is these days how she spends an awful lot of her not otherwise occupied time.
She decides, in the absence of a better plan for the next ten minutes, to make a pot of tea.
The teapot is, of course, back on the shelf she can't reach. It's getting a little ridiculous, in her opinion. She's asked him to put it with the mugs a dozen times. He always says he will, and she knows he means it when he says it, and yet. Of course, part of the problem might be that there's not quite enough room on the shelf she wants it on, not when all the mugs are clean and put away.
But maybe if she moves that bowl . . . It doesn't make any sense to keep it there, anyway.
Three hours later, Meg has reorganized the entire kitchen, taking into account what they use the most, what they use the least, what they probably will never use but received as a wedding present, what makes sense logically grouped, and which shelves each of them can reach without having to climb onto furniture. And then she leaves a lamp on for Alain and goes to bed, without ever having actually made tea.
It's some time after one when the shift of the mattress and the blankets wakes her from what's essentially a doze, because even if she's not waiting up, she's still waiting for him to get home.
"Did you have a good time?" Meg asks.
"I didn't mean to wake you."
"I wasn't really asleep."
"It was all right," Alain says neutrally, answering her question. Had they been having this conversation sitting in the living room or standing in the kitchen, Meg knows exactly the shrug that would have accompanied his statement.
As far as Meg can tell, none of Jérôme's friends are exactly enthusiastic about his upcoming nuptials.
She settles her head against Alain's shoulder. "I'm glad you didn't feel like you had to do that before our wedding. One last night of freedom or whatever it's supposed to be."
"I didn't feel that I was giving anything up, marrying you," Alain says, kissing her hair just above her temple. "Go back to sleep."
Alain sleeps late the next morning. He might have slept later, but Meg wakes him up a little before eleven with the argument that he has a wedding to attend and the promise that the coffee is already waiting in the kitchen.
She's studying at one end of the table when he half-stumbles, yawning, into the kitchen several minutes later, and opens the cabinet with the mugs.
Then opens another cabinet.
And another.
"Meg?"
She looks up.
"What happened?"
"Oh, I reorganized a little last night."
"A little?" he asks.
"A lot."
"And you didn't think maybe you should talk to me before you moved everything in the kitchen?"
"I . . ."
"Well?"
"You're right. I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd mind."
"Wouldn't you?"
"Yes, I would. I'm sorry, Alain. I was just trying to make room for the teapot, and I guess I got carried away."
"You reorganized my whole kitchen."
"Hold on," Meg says. "It's not your kitchen. It's our kitchen."
"And that gives you the right to change it all without me?"
"No, Alain. It doesn't. I've already said that I'm sorry and I was wrong. But, honey, this isn't just your apartment any more. It's mine, too. It's ours."
Alain throws both hands up briefly. "We don't have time for this. We have to go watch one of my friends make the biggest mistake of his life." He sloshes coffee into a mug and stalks back to the bedroom.
Attending Jérôme and Monique's wedding is a bit like watching the last act of King Lear, knowing that Cordelia is busy dying off stage, and that it's not going to get mentioned in time for anyone to stop it, and that there's nothing anyone in the audience can do but wait for her body to be carried in.
Or perhaps Meg is just projecting, given that she and Alain rode here in silence and she's not exactly in the mood for a wedding.
Most likely, though, it's a little of both. Monique and Jérôme seem, from the limited interaction Meg has had with them (especially Monique), to be remarkably unsuited to each other. Monique is more or less universally disliked by Jérôme's friends, and while Meg is a firm believer in making your own decisions about things, she has to believe that if friends who've known you all your life all dislike your fiancee, that's probably indicative of something.
On top of that, it's a wedding that feels like a wedding, not like the start of a marriage, and Meg is willing to bet that Monique has given much more thought to the centerpieces on the tables at the reception (which are dramatic and tall and make it impossible to see the person sitting directly across from you) than she has to things like the reality of sharing a kitchen.
Alain's friend Henri, who was one of the eight groomsmen, drops into the seat across from Meg's, drink in hand. "I think she chose the weekend before Halloween because she's a witch. I still can't believe he went through with it."
"Henri," Alain says, with a shake of the head and gesture to Meg to indicate they're not the only two people sitting here.
Henri leans to his left until he can see around the explosion of flowers and feathers and glitter-encrusted twigs in the middle of the table. "Ah! Bonjour, Meg."
"Bonjour, Henri."
"Thank you, Meg, for not being Monique."
"You're welcome, Henri," Meg says, because he seems to be waiting for a response, and it's the only one she can think of.
"Ça suffit, Henri," Alain says, before turning to Meg to ask (in English), "Do you want to dance?"
It is, in its way, something like an apology, his hands at her waist and her head against his shoulder, and if it doesn't solve any problems, it puts them all into their place as pieces of the whole.
Meg's silent when they get back to their table, while Alain is telling a long story about something he and Jérôme did when they were fifteen, to which Meg is only half-listening, thinking.
"Meg?"
Perhaps she wasn't even half-listening, because she has no idea what Alain just said.
"Hmmmm? What? Sorry," she says.
"Are you still mad at me?"
"I'm not mad at you. I just . . . "
"What?"
"Do your friends talk about me like that?" Meg asks.
"Like what?"
"The way they talk about Monique."
Alain smiles. "Not where I can hear them."
"I'm serious, Alain. Do they think you made a terrible mistake? Did they try to talk you of marrying me?"
"No, of course not. One or two of them pointed out that we were young to be engaged, but that's not about you. And, anyway, they were wrong. They like you, Meg. And I love you."
"Je t'aime, aussi."
"You believe me, right?" Alain asks. "You heard Henri. They know you're not Monique."
"Just what I always wanted to be. 'Not Monique.'"
"You know what you are?" Alain asks, reaching over to take her hand. "You're strawberries."
"I'm strawberries?" Meg asks.
"Yes."
"Alain, I have no idea what that means, unless you're trying to be poetic about my hair."
"Strawberries. They're sweet enough to be dessert, but they're good for you. You can have them every day and not get tired of them. And you could you live without them, but why would you want to? You're strawberries." He picks up one strand of her hair and considers it for a second. "And, yes, your hair probably contributes to the metaphor, ma fraise."
Meg laughs. "All right, I'm strawberries." There's a pause, and then she says, "We can put the kitchen back the way you had it, if you want."
"Eh, I should see what you did first. I just put things in cabinets when I moved in and left them there. Your way might make more sense. You can show me, when we get home."
Meg looks around the wedding reception that no one seems to be enjoying very much. Etiquette says that they're supposed to stay until the cake is cut, but . . . "Let's go home," Meg says.
"So you can show me the kitchen?"
"Eventually."
Alain smiles. "Race you to the car."
"Don't feel like you have to get into too much trouble," Meg replies.
They've got very different Friday evenings planned. Alain is off to his friend Jérôme's bachelor party, and Meg has a new murder mystery and a spot on the couch.
Alain leans down to kiss his wife's cheek. "I promise I won't have to call you to come post bail."
"Well, I promise to come post it if you do."
"And I'd pay you back later?"
"In ways you can't imagine," Meg says cheerfully, and Alain laughs. "Have fun."
"You, too."
After he's left, though, Meg has a hard time focusing on her book. Partly because she's two chapters in and fairly certain the cousin did it, and while she supposes that could be a red herring, she's also fairly certain it's not. And partly because she's just not quite in the mood to read.
She's also not remotely in the mood to study, which is these days how she spends an awful lot of her not otherwise occupied time.
She decides, in the absence of a better plan for the next ten minutes, to make a pot of tea.
The teapot is, of course, back on the shelf she can't reach. It's getting a little ridiculous, in her opinion. She's asked him to put it with the mugs a dozen times. He always says he will, and she knows he means it when he says it, and yet. Of course, part of the problem might be that there's not quite enough room on the shelf she wants it on, not when all the mugs are clean and put away.
But maybe if she moves that bowl . . . It doesn't make any sense to keep it there, anyway.
Three hours later, Meg has reorganized the entire kitchen, taking into account what they use the most, what they use the least, what they probably will never use but received as a wedding present, what makes sense logically grouped, and which shelves each of them can reach without having to climb onto furniture. And then she leaves a lamp on for Alain and goes to bed, without ever having actually made tea.
It's some time after one when the shift of the mattress and the blankets wakes her from what's essentially a doze, because even if she's not waiting up, she's still waiting for him to get home.
"Did you have a good time?" Meg asks.
"I didn't mean to wake you."
"I wasn't really asleep."
"It was all right," Alain says neutrally, answering her question. Had they been having this conversation sitting in the living room or standing in the kitchen, Meg knows exactly the shrug that would have accompanied his statement.
As far as Meg can tell, none of Jérôme's friends are exactly enthusiastic about his upcoming nuptials.
She settles her head against Alain's shoulder. "I'm glad you didn't feel like you had to do that before our wedding. One last night of freedom or whatever it's supposed to be."
"I didn't feel that I was giving anything up, marrying you," Alain says, kissing her hair just above her temple. "Go back to sleep."
Alain sleeps late the next morning. He might have slept later, but Meg wakes him up a little before eleven with the argument that he has a wedding to attend and the promise that the coffee is already waiting in the kitchen.
She's studying at one end of the table when he half-stumbles, yawning, into the kitchen several minutes later, and opens the cabinet with the mugs.
Then opens another cabinet.
And another.
"Meg?"
She looks up.
"What happened?"
"Oh, I reorganized a little last night."
"A little?" he asks.
"A lot."
"And you didn't think maybe you should talk to me before you moved everything in the kitchen?"
"I . . ."
"Well?"
"You're right. I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd mind."
"Wouldn't you?"
"Yes, I would. I'm sorry, Alain. I was just trying to make room for the teapot, and I guess I got carried away."
"You reorganized my whole kitchen."
"Hold on," Meg says. "It's not your kitchen. It's our kitchen."
"And that gives you the right to change it all without me?"
"No, Alain. It doesn't. I've already said that I'm sorry and I was wrong. But, honey, this isn't just your apartment any more. It's mine, too. It's ours."
Alain throws both hands up briefly. "We don't have time for this. We have to go watch one of my friends make the biggest mistake of his life." He sloshes coffee into a mug and stalks back to the bedroom.
Attending Jérôme and Monique's wedding is a bit like watching the last act of King Lear, knowing that Cordelia is busy dying off stage, and that it's not going to get mentioned in time for anyone to stop it, and that there's nothing anyone in the audience can do but wait for her body to be carried in.
Or perhaps Meg is just projecting, given that she and Alain rode here in silence and she's not exactly in the mood for a wedding.
Most likely, though, it's a little of both. Monique and Jérôme seem, from the limited interaction Meg has had with them (especially Monique), to be remarkably unsuited to each other. Monique is more or less universally disliked by Jérôme's friends, and while Meg is a firm believer in making your own decisions about things, she has to believe that if friends who've known you all your life all dislike your fiancee, that's probably indicative of something.
On top of that, it's a wedding that feels like a wedding, not like the start of a marriage, and Meg is willing to bet that Monique has given much more thought to the centerpieces on the tables at the reception (which are dramatic and tall and make it impossible to see the person sitting directly across from you) than she has to things like the reality of sharing a kitchen.
Alain's friend Henri, who was one of the eight groomsmen, drops into the seat across from Meg's, drink in hand. "I think she chose the weekend before Halloween because she's a witch. I still can't believe he went through with it."
"Henri," Alain says, with a shake of the head and gesture to Meg to indicate they're not the only two people sitting here.
Henri leans to his left until he can see around the explosion of flowers and feathers and glitter-encrusted twigs in the middle of the table. "Ah! Bonjour, Meg."
"Bonjour, Henri."
"Thank you, Meg, for not being Monique."
"You're welcome, Henri," Meg says, because he seems to be waiting for a response, and it's the only one she can think of.
"Ça suffit, Henri," Alain says, before turning to Meg to ask (in English), "Do you want to dance?"
It is, in its way, something like an apology, his hands at her waist and her head against his shoulder, and if it doesn't solve any problems, it puts them all into their place as pieces of the whole.
Meg's silent when they get back to their table, while Alain is telling a long story about something he and Jérôme did when they were fifteen, to which Meg is only half-listening, thinking.
"Meg?"
Perhaps she wasn't even half-listening, because she has no idea what Alain just said.
"Hmmmm? What? Sorry," she says.
"Are you still mad at me?"
"I'm not mad at you. I just . . . "
"What?"
"Do your friends talk about me like that?" Meg asks.
"Like what?"
"The way they talk about Monique."
Alain smiles. "Not where I can hear them."
"I'm serious, Alain. Do they think you made a terrible mistake? Did they try to talk you of marrying me?"
"No, of course not. One or two of them pointed out that we were young to be engaged, but that's not about you. And, anyway, they were wrong. They like you, Meg. And I love you."
"Je t'aime, aussi."
"You believe me, right?" Alain asks. "You heard Henri. They know you're not Monique."
"Just what I always wanted to be. 'Not Monique.'"
"You know what you are?" Alain asks, reaching over to take her hand. "You're strawberries."
"I'm strawberries?" Meg asks.
"Yes."
"Alain, I have no idea what that means, unless you're trying to be poetic about my hair."
"Strawberries. They're sweet enough to be dessert, but they're good for you. You can have them every day and not get tired of them. And you could you live without them, but why would you want to? You're strawberries." He picks up one strand of her hair and considers it for a second. "And, yes, your hair probably contributes to the metaphor, ma fraise."
Meg laughs. "All right, I'm strawberries." There's a pause, and then she says, "We can put the kitchen back the way you had it, if you want."
"Eh, I should see what you did first. I just put things in cabinets when I moved in and left them there. Your way might make more sense. You can show me, when we get home."
Meg looks around the wedding reception that no one seems to be enjoying very much. Etiquette says that they're supposed to stay until the cake is cut, but . . . "Let's go home," Meg says.
"So you can show me the kitchen?"
"Eventually."
Alain smiles. "Race you to the car."
