The Language Barrier

six. á bientôt

six.

|| á bientôt ||

            Evelyn laughed nervously. She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, by all of this, and it frightened her. She had never been the sort of girl desperate for a boyfriend and the prospect of falling in love scared her. Yet she felt it, the possibility of herself and Honoré, together. Not now, of course, but all things in their time. Undoubtedly, it wouldn’t end well.

            She blushed and stared down at her lap, amused and unsure of what to think. They sat that way for a while, Evelyn fondly looking down and Honoré peering around at the people in the restaurant.

            “Tell me about yourself.” she requested. He smiled, and she noticed how his teeth were sort of crooked and his lips were too thin.

            “Where should I start?” he asked, and Evelyn was quiet for a moment, taking the time to study his face. He just sat there, looking back at her expressionless, as if he were doing the same. He had crow’s feet adorning the corners of his eyes [Croix’s feet, she thought to herself bemusedly]; gray rimmed with black, fading into dark pupils at the center. There was no color to his complexion, and he seemingly never attempted to arrange his black curls, but it was a warm, inviting face altogether. He was completely human, flawed and unsymmetrical, bridging the line between God and biology.

            “You’re an artist?” she murmured, and accepted the plate the waiter had finally delivered. He took a bite of his fettuccine and chewed, thinking.

            “I do paintings, most of land and scenes. And write poetry, music.”

            Evelyn smiled. “That’s interesting.”

            “Not really,” he retorted, mouth full, “I am hipster poop.”

            She snorted, mid drink, and water sprayed from her nose, making her face sting not only with pain, but also with embarrassment. She plucked her napkin from her lap and held it up to where she still dripped, deep laughter echoing from Honoré across the table. She stopped chastising herself for being so disgusting and clumsy every time she went out with him and listened to him laugh. It was a comforting sound and soon she found herself giggling along with him, ignoring the confused stares from café workers.

            “Ma cherie,” Honoré was eventually able to say, “Can I not take you anywhere?”

† † †

            They were eventually able to finish their meal without behaving like schoolchildren and he walked her back to the Metro station, their hips bumping as they walked. They told stories about Estelle and her antics, and Evelyn managed not to get that strange jealous feeling.

            He stopped her in front of the gate, and she peered up at him, confused.

            “Why’d you stop?” she asked. He lowered his head, shrinking a bit.

            “I cannot ride with you. I eat with my parents tonight.” he told her, somehow ashamed of this. Although Evelyn knew that the family wasn’t the closest, it was no reason for his current reaction.

            “What’s wrong?” she asked, concerned. She caught his eye at the same time as she found his hand, brushing hers lightly against it.

            “Ah, nothing. Just always not comfortable.” Evelyn could tell he wasn’t telling the entire truth, but opted not to push it, as it was his business and she wouldn’t be that nosey, aggressive friend.

            “Oh. Well, good luck, I suppose?”

            “Merci beaucoup.” he muttered. His mood change was sudden and unfamiliar, and it worried Evelyn dearly. She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek lightly, gripping his shoulders with both hands. He leaned into her touch, and she was glad she was able to comfort him in this tiny way. She began to back away slowly, hearing the next train blur beneath the city.

            “À bientôt,” she whispered. He nodded and disappeared into the exiting crowd.

            She was worried about him for the rest of the train ride back to her dormitory, and even called him once just to check on him. He didn’t answer.

† † †

            Estelle’s attempts to cheer her up were not very successful. After recounting all the details of her outing with Honoré and a Cary Grant movie marathon, Evelyn was too depressed to talk and much too worried to sleep. Of course, she knew she was being irrational, but nothing helped to calm her nerves. The first boy she’d ever taken an interest in had noticed her, and she’d managed to develop an intense feeling of protectiveness for him. She pinned the whole ordeal on Estelle and her insistence.

            “Oh, you are good for him, cherie. And he likes you.”

            If it weren’t for her roommate, she’d never be in this situation. She rolled over to face the wall, pouting. Some Francophone drama lit up the room from the small television, and Estelle sat on her bed with a bowl of ice cream, watching intently. What a hopeless, stupid romantic girl.

            Eventually Estelle went to sleep, whispering goodnight to her sullen friend as she flipped the television off. Evelyn lie awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering where she’d gone wrong. Perhaps she was crazy and obsessive, or maybe it was her father’s fault for discouraging her relationships with any member of the opposite sex, or her mother’s Freudian principles.

            She realized how stupid she was being, as well as the fact that she had class at noon the next day, and closed her eyes, eventually drifting away to dreams in which she could not remember how to ask for the location of a restroom in French, a nightmare in its own right.

† † †

            A dim light and a persistent vibration awoke her. The digital clock read 02:13, and she was confused for a few blurry moments. Estelle snored softly across the dark room, the low growl issuing from her throat sounding anything but feminine. She spotted the light of her phone underneath the covers where she’d apparently left it the night before, and frantically felt around for it.

            Honoré was calling, and she took a deep breath before answering, anxiety kicking in. She began to guess as to what he would say, and the anticipation began to make her sick. She swept the button across her phone, eyes wide open.

            “Salut?” she asked. She heard breathing on the other end before his voice came through, a low whisper. He didn’t sound too well and he spoke slowly and in French, as if forgetting that she would not understand most of what he was saying. What she did understand, in a rough translation, was, “Will you come to my home because I wish so?”

            “Oui.” she whispered, not wanting to wake up Estelle, who’d have no shortage of personal questions.

            “18 Place d’Champlain. Métro est à Beaudry.” he recited his address, before simply hanging up. Evelyn crept from her bed, searching for the jeans and cardigan she had discarded the night before.

            Estelle didn’t as much as stir as she opened the door to their room and left, emerging in the cold night air.