do with his instrument,” Anjoli smiled.
Oh now she’s just being cruel.
“Okay, off to the bedroom, you two! And don’t you come out until Lucy’s off in dreamland.”
Bitch!
As we walked up two flights of stairs, Henri asked if it was “deefeecult” to climb stairs with my cane.
“Make yourself comfortable in zee bed and tell me when I am to begin,” Henri said. This guy would be so excellent in bed. Jack never asked when I was ready to begin. No guy ever told me to make myself comfortable in zee bed before. “Can I bring you some water?” Henri offered. He is so accommodating. I wonder how he would react if I matter-of-factly asked him to lick my inner thighs and lightly bite the skin on my legs. I mean, if I just said it like it was the most normal request in the world, he might think it’s an American bedtime ritual and just do it. “Should I close zee curtains to keep zee sunshine outside?” Henri asked, reminding me that it was two in the afternoon. When there’s a Frenchman in your bedroom, it always seems like midnight.
Pull me in by my ample waist and kiss me as if you’ve been waiting a lifetime to have me. Rip my blouse off right now. Run your extremely heterosexual razor stubble across my burgeoning, rotund breasts immediately. Hold my hands down with your strong grip and thrust into me so hard that I will feel you inside me weeks later.
“Yeah, great idea, Henri,” I said. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the soothing wave of music coming from his harp. I felt my head sink into my old pillow as the smell of home began to unwind my nerves. The clean Egyptian cotton sheets rose to meet my skin. I felt fatigue leave my body and sink into the mattress. The left side of my face grew as placid as the right as my breathing slowed and steadied into a meditative state. I instinctively knew that everything was going to be all right. I wasn’t sure what everything was, but I knew that all would turn out exactly as it should. I felt more of a sense of peace than I ever remember experiencing.
“Relax, ma chere. Let yourself have sleep, beautiful girl.”
My eyes shot open and my body stiffened. Was he talking to me?! Beautiful girl? Ma chere? There’s no way I’m sleeping through this. Just talk to me, Henri. Just look at me with those French eyes and keep telling this seven-months-pregnant fat chick with facial paralysis that she’s a beautiful girl. There’s no way I’m sleeping through this!
Chapter 8
After spending three weeks, including the holidays, at my mother’s apartment in the city, Anjoli grew suspicious that all was not well on the suburban frontier. After all, Jack drove to the gallery every day and could have easily taken me home with him at night. I loved being back in the Village, walking past my old elementary school yard, checking out the dynamic graffiti art, and remembering simpler times with my father as I walked to Washington Square Park. I missed Jack, and probably would have returned home if he protested my absence. But he didn’t so I stayed. He was dating someone, and I didn’t have the energy for a fight. What would I have done anyway, clubbed her knee with my cane like Tanya Harding’s thug boyfriend? I preferred to lay low and keep my twisted face out of sight.
I had no articles or company newsletters due and my doctor said it was best if I just took it easy for the last month of pregnancy. I used this as an excuse to not return to the keyboard to continue with the tragic tale of Desdemona in the rain, or even think about what she was doing wandering that dark cobblestone road anyway. I was, however, exceptionally motivated to do my facial exercises, which were amazingly effective. In just under a week, some of the movement had returned to my face. Still, I hadn’t returned home.
“I’m thrilled to have you, darling, but isn’t Jack missing you?” Anjoli asked one day after she placed our dinner delivery order from the Zen Palate. Normally
Oh now she’s just being cruel.
“Okay, off to the bedroom, you two! And don’t you come out until Lucy’s off in dreamland.”
Bitch!
As we walked up two flights of stairs, Henri asked if it was “deefeecult” to climb stairs with my cane.
“Make yourself comfortable in zee bed and tell me when I am to begin,” Henri said. This guy would be so excellent in bed. Jack never asked when I was ready to begin. No guy ever told me to make myself comfortable in zee bed before. “Can I bring you some water?” Henri offered. He is so accommodating. I wonder how he would react if I matter-of-factly asked him to lick my inner thighs and lightly bite the skin on my legs. I mean, if I just said it like it was the most normal request in the world, he might think it’s an American bedtime ritual and just do it. “Should I close zee curtains to keep zee sunshine outside?” Henri asked, reminding me that it was two in the afternoon. When there’s a Frenchman in your bedroom, it always seems like midnight.
Pull me in by my ample waist and kiss me as if you’ve been waiting a lifetime to have me. Rip my blouse off right now. Run your extremely heterosexual razor stubble across my burgeoning, rotund breasts immediately. Hold my hands down with your strong grip and thrust into me so hard that I will feel you inside me weeks later.
“Yeah, great idea, Henri,” I said. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the soothing wave of music coming from his harp. I felt my head sink into my old pillow as the smell of home began to unwind my nerves. The clean Egyptian cotton sheets rose to meet my skin. I felt fatigue leave my body and sink into the mattress. The left side of my face grew as placid as the right as my breathing slowed and steadied into a meditative state. I instinctively knew that everything was going to be all right. I wasn’t sure what everything was, but I knew that all would turn out exactly as it should. I felt more of a sense of peace than I ever remember experiencing.
“Relax, ma chere. Let yourself have sleep, beautiful girl.”
My eyes shot open and my body stiffened. Was he talking to me?! Beautiful girl? Ma chere? There’s no way I’m sleeping through this. Just talk to me, Henri. Just look at me with those French eyes and keep telling this seven-months-pregnant fat chick with facial paralysis that she’s a beautiful girl. There’s no way I’m sleeping through this!
Chapter 8
After spending three weeks, including the holidays, at my mother’s apartment in the city, Anjoli grew suspicious that all was not well on the suburban frontier. After all, Jack drove to the gallery every day and could have easily taken me home with him at night. I loved being back in the Village, walking past my old elementary school yard, checking out the dynamic graffiti art, and remembering simpler times with my father as I walked to Washington Square Park. I missed Jack, and probably would have returned home if he protested my absence. But he didn’t so I stayed. He was dating someone, and I didn’t have the energy for a fight. What would I have done anyway, clubbed her knee with my cane like Tanya Harding’s thug boyfriend? I preferred to lay low and keep my twisted face out of sight.
I had no articles or company newsletters due and my doctor said it was best if I just took it easy for the last month of pregnancy. I used this as an excuse to not return to the keyboard to continue with the tragic tale of Desdemona in the rain, or even think about what she was doing wandering that dark cobblestone road anyway. I was, however, exceptionally motivated to do my facial exercises, which were amazingly effective. In just under a week, some of the movement had returned to my face. Still, I hadn’t returned home.
“I’m thrilled to have you, darling, but isn’t Jack missing you?” Anjoli asked one day after she placed our dinner delivery order from the Zen Palate. Normally
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