Call me Zaza, Cerise, Nina, Canelle, Lola, Clochette, Felice, Ficelle, Anice, Mimosa, Fleur, Lisi.
In fact, don’t call me any of that. They’re just names of silly cats from a T-shirt he bought me. That T-shirt was the last thing he got me. He’d spent an incredible 10.90 euros (with a fifty-percent discount included) on it because I reminded him of those dumb, small, round, fluffy, adorable kittens. Kitties. Pussycats. Any of those stupid pet names.
Call me Franka. Neither Zaza nor Cerise nor Nina, least of all Clochette. What a bunch of shit! I mean the marriage, not the T-shirt. The T-shirt is actually cute, and I can’t get rid of it. It’s one of the few things I can’t get rid of. It seems to smell of him.Continue Reading >>>
The old lady knew it was outside. She wasn’t worried about firewood, since she kept enough of it inside that she didn’t need to go to the wood pile in the yard for days, nor was she in danger of running out of food. Her pantry was so well stocked that she could go two whole seasons without visiting the rather remote village store. Besides, her son and daughter could always bring her whatever was missing. No need to deprive herself of anything. She was a lady of some standing, after all, and if she had to, she could afford a local woman to bring her supplies. Good God, back in the city, she’d even been a boss of some kind, though that had been so long ago that even she barely remembered it.Continue Reading >>>