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kasihyaWrite for at least 10 minutes about a reconciliation, a box of chocolates, and a note. Focus on writing in a different style than your usual.
The note said: You’re expected at fifteen o’clock on the twenty-first of the month. Kennington Park. Bring a picnic blanket and sandwiches.
‘Absolutely not,’ I said to the note.
The note glared at me.
I glared back. A staring contest was born.
The note lost. The maid took it away while I went out to dine with my brother. We hadn’t seen each other in several months, Bill and I. He went to study literature in Bordeaux. Less glamorous than Paris; also less expensive, and we couldn’t afford the expenses after our mother’s funeral. We could have, if our father hadn’t drunk all of his savings away three years before. I told Bill not to dwell on what could have been, it’s all in the past now, isn’t it.
‘Cecile, that’s the one intelligent thing I’ve heard out of you since we were kids,’ he said when I reminded him. Every time. Every damn time.
I met him at noon outside the café where I ate most Wednesdays. He hugged me. His jacket smelled like cheap cigars.
‘Cecile, it’s awfully good to see you.’
‘And you. How’s Lázaro?’
‘You know how he is.’
‘Melancholic.’
‘Perpetually.’
‘But he pays his half of the rent?’
‘’I’m not a pícaro,’ he says, ‘I’m an artista. I pay my share even if I go hungry’.’
‘And then you end up buying him food,’ I said. He’d written often about Lázaro in his letters.
Once Lázaro drew me a picture of them in their flat and had Bill mail it from France: him sitting on the floor by his easel, and Bill sitting on the bed that was also their sofa. Wine bottles filled with flowers lined the window. It looked almost comfortable.
‘Of course. His family is going to pay for the wedding. That will make us even.’
‘Would you like anything to drink?’ The waitress appeared at our table.
‘Just water.’
‘The daily special,’ said Bill.
‘Just water for him, too.’
‘I’ll be right back.’
‘That wasn’t nice.’
‘We can’t afford it.’
‘Soon, we will.’
‘You’ve met his family?’
‘They came to visit us. They’re very nice. Lázaro has a younger sister.’
‘Bill …’
‘We could, you know. Then it would be proper.’
‘I’m not marrying your boyfriend.’
‘Not even a little?’
‘Not even for all the chocolate in the world.’
‘Speaking of chocolate …’
‘No.’
‘I was going to say. If you’re going to meet someone for tea, then it’d be a good idea to bring chocolates.’
I crossed my arms over my chest. ‘I didn’t say I was going to meet someone.’
‘But you are, aren’t you? Please say you are. It’d make me very happy.’
‘Lázaro makes you happy. Not me. I’m just the sister who won’t marry your boyfriend.’
‘Go and have tea. We can have supper tonight at the house. I’ll tell the maid while you’re out.’
The waitress came back with our waters just after that. We talked. We talked about his writing, and we talked about his university professors. They made fun of his English accent.
I held my tongue. He wouldn’t have wanted to hear about me. He never did. I didn’t hold it against him; it was just the way he was. He cared about me, I knew he did, but he was bored quickly by details.
Aaaaaaand then Cecile goes to the park with the picnic blanket and chocolates as suggested by Bill, who's brought her ex-girlfriend up from France to come apologize and ask for her to come back. And then when Cecile meets Bill that night for dinner, she says that she's rethought his proposed arrangement, with a few modifications ...
The note said: You’re expected at fifteen o’clock on the twenty-first of the month. Kennington Park. Bring a picnic blanket and sandwiches.
‘Absolutely not,’ I said to the note.
The note glared at me.
I glared back. A staring contest was born.
The note lost. The maid took it away while I went out to dine with my brother. We hadn’t seen each other in several months, Bill and I. He went to study literature in Bordeaux. Less glamorous than Paris; also less expensive, and we couldn’t afford the expenses after our mother’s funeral. We could have, if our father hadn’t drunk all of his savings away three years before. I told Bill not to dwell on what could have been, it’s all in the past now, isn’t it.
‘Cecile, that’s the one intelligent thing I’ve heard out of you since we were kids,’ he said when I reminded him. Every time. Every damn time.
I met him at noon outside the café where I ate most Wednesdays. He hugged me. His jacket smelled like cheap cigars.
‘Cecile, it’s awfully good to see you.’
‘And you. How’s Lázaro?’
‘You know how he is.’
‘Melancholic.’
‘Perpetually.’
‘But he pays his half of the rent?’
‘’I’m not a pícaro,’ he says, ‘I’m an artista. I pay my share even if I go hungry’.’
‘And then you end up buying him food,’ I said. He’d written often about Lázaro in his letters.
Once Lázaro drew me a picture of them in their flat and had Bill mail it from France: him sitting on the floor by his easel, and Bill sitting on the bed that was also their sofa. Wine bottles filled with flowers lined the window. It looked almost comfortable.
‘Of course. His family is going to pay for the wedding. That will make us even.’
‘Would you like anything to drink?’ The waitress appeared at our table.
‘Just water.’
‘The daily special,’ said Bill.
‘Just water for him, too.’
‘I’ll be right back.’
‘That wasn’t nice.’
‘We can’t afford it.’
‘Soon, we will.’
‘You’ve met his family?’
‘They came to visit us. They’re very nice. Lázaro has a younger sister.’
‘Bill …’
‘We could, you know. Then it would be proper.’
‘I’m not marrying your boyfriend.’
‘Not even a little?’
‘Not even for all the chocolate in the world.’
‘Speaking of chocolate …’
‘No.’
‘I was going to say. If you’re going to meet someone for tea, then it’d be a good idea to bring chocolates.’
I crossed my arms over my chest. ‘I didn’t say I was going to meet someone.’
‘But you are, aren’t you? Please say you are. It’d make me very happy.’
‘Lázaro makes you happy. Not me. I’m just the sister who won’t marry your boyfriend.’
‘Go and have tea. We can have supper tonight at the house. I’ll tell the maid while you’re out.’
The waitress came back with our waters just after that. We talked. We talked about his writing, and we talked about his university professors. They made fun of his English accent.
I held my tongue. He wouldn’t have wanted to hear about me. He never did. I didn’t hold it against him; it was just the way he was. He cared about me, I knew he did, but he was bored quickly by details.
Aaaaaaand then Cecile goes to the park with the picnic blanket and chocolates as suggested by Bill, who's brought her ex-girlfriend up from France to come apologize and ask for her to come back. And then when Cecile meets Bill that night for dinner, she says that she's rethought his proposed arrangement, with a few modifications ...
