France

April 27, 2012

“Je t’aime!” He waved at his lover as he pedaled his small bike down the straight to the factory.

“Oui, oui. Je t’aime,” she countered, mostly despondent. Her hand barely raised high enough for him to see as he pedaled lightly down the sidewalk.

She entered her house to make a small breakfast for herself, the whole time cursing the small, quiet neighborhood they had been damned to. “I’ll never get out of here. We’ll never have enough money to move to France. We’ll die in this town.”

They had been stuck in Hyannis for almost a decade now, having moved there right after college so her husband could take a job at a nuclear power plant. They thought they would only be there until things worked out in France, but every plan they made fell through quicker that it had been drawn up, and with a little one on the way, there was no way they’d have the funds to move out of the country now.

She grabbed a small baguette for the breadbox and gave it a sharp sniff. She could tell that the bread had become just as stale as her life had, but it was no matter. Grabbing a sharp knife, she began slicing the weeks old bread. She wasn’t completely dissatisfied with her life. She loved her husband and enjoyed her time off from work as their child grew inside her.

The night the baby was conceived was one of the best nights of her life. Her husband had come home with fine champagne, swearing he had clenched a job on the board of the nuclear power plant. They kissed passionately, spilling the champagne on the hardwood floor of their bedroom. They made love all night, urged on by their love for each other and the idea that the new job would provide an outlet to her beloved France.

But big cuts had to be made, and he was one of them.

They never saw the pink slip in his locker coming until it was too late. Luckily, the local straight razor factory always needed workers.

She rubbed her stomach lightly, knowing that many months would pass before they were able to meet their child. She dug lightly through the spice rack for cinnamon and retrieved the large bag of sugar from the floor cabinet.

Of course, the factory was just a mile or so down the road, so her husband fixed up his old bike and rode it everyday, even in the brisk fall weather. It saved money, so he didn’t mind. He still dreamed of giving her her dream of living in France.

But, they both slowly realized that it was no longer possible.

They would be in Hyannis for the rest of their lives.

She dunked the stale bread in an egg and cinnamon mixture, and slapped it into a sizzling hot skillet.

“C’est la vie,” she sighed audibly.

“C’est la vie.”

ghjr

———————————————————————

This is not included in the 500 word limit.

Thanks to Ashton Cutright for the challenge. Good luck on your quest for a saw.

Now, by show of hands, who expected depression over failed dreams in a post about France?

Also, who realized she was making French toast?

I’ll bet you did.

Truly ghjr.

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