A Romance en Francais
They sat in the back of the cab and
swore undying love between passionate kisses. He wanted to speak French, “the
language of love,” so he murmured “Je
t’aime.” She responded “Je t’aime
aussi,” with an accent right out of Southern Appalachia. They were wild
about each other.
He played piano and was an
accompanist for the ballet company on campus. They met when he was on a break
one Saturday and she happened to be walking past the studio. She thought he was
cute, even though he was a freshman and she was a sophomore. He had curly black
hair, dark eyes that sparkled behind his glasses, and a killer smile.
He thought she was adorable, petite
but with a womanly figure, dreamy brown eyes, and light brown hair. She was a
voice major but had studied ballet for years. She wasn’t eligible to be in the
dance program at the school but took class occasionally at a studio in the
city. They talked about ballet, and the school, and how much they loved music.
They started meeting in the
cafeteria for lunch and talked endlessly about everything, delighting each
other with their witty repartee. He invited her to dinner and they walked to a
small nearby restaurant. They went to student recitals together and held hands.
Breakfast and dinner together became part of their day.
They went to a symphony concert and he
put his arm around her and pressed his lips against her cheek, against her hair.
She gripped his arm. It was in the cab on the way back to the campus that they
fell into each other’s arms and pledged their love in French. “Je t’amerai toujours,” he said, and she
echoed “Toujours.” She only knew a
few words of French, but she guessed that he had just told her he would love
her forever.
He called her. They had long phone
conversations, trying to rekindle the flame. The conversations generally deteriorated
into sarcastic sniping at each other. The phone calls dwindled. They really
didn’t have anything to say to each other; even the sarcasm wasn’t worth the
effort. The conversations were just annoying.
They didn’t really break up. They
just stopped.
Maybe French had been a bad idea.
**********
Anyone who has read any of my novels knows I tend to "write long." I like words. I am a fan of Charles Dickens, who wrote long. Lately I've been challenging myself to learn to put together a story ... not a fragment of a story ... but a complete story using fewer words.
I'm not sure if this qualifies as flash fiction but I would think it might according to some definitions I've read. This is under five hundred words. I'd appreciate comments!
I'm not sure if this qualifies as flash fiction but I would think it might according to some definitions I've read. This is under five hundred words. I'd appreciate comments!