After the drowsy afternoon, the Sauvage takes Nana and myself to the creperie next door for dinner. Nana is in a foul temper, particularly whiny and disruptive to the point that even her father is short with her. In between pouting whiny tears, the Sauvage and I try to talk. For some reason he is asking me about the US. “How many states do you have?” he asks. I'm shocked he doesn't know, but then again it's not like I know how many countries are part of the EU (27). When I tell him 50, he's shocked. He makes me repeat it a few times convinced that I am saying the wrong number, until finally I write it down. He asks me about where I live in NY, and I end up drawing a little map of NY marking the Hudson and East River, the Statue of Liberty, and Central Park. I try and explain that I live in what was "Little Germantown" AKA Yorkville. I notice other diners looking at us, the oddness of our little family. The American girl trying to explain using drawings and broken French, and the two Bretons acting as if I am trying to convince them that Bigfoot is actually the Attorney General of the US. (Of course, remember, these were the same people who were concerned that the Governator was going to become President.) It becomes clear to me at this late date that what separates us isn't just the language or the ocean, but, even after all this time, a profound lack of understanding. Has the language barrier allowed me to feel more accepted than I am? Suspension of disbelief to the power of 10?

On the other hand, can I fault him for not understanding my life? I keep trying to imagine what his childhood was like here-growing up in this beach town. Try to imagine what his classes were like in school-him hanging out with other boys-playing what? Were there dances at school? Does he even have the vaguest concept of what a school bus is? Did he walk to class? These seem like minor things, but when you take them in all together, I begin to realize how little we have in common except our propensity to make crazy romantic decisions.


The Sauvage is driving us to his parents house to drop Nana off, but she insists he pull the car over by the beach at Sable d'Or. She jumps out of the car. The wind is blowing hard and whips her hair in a mad dervish. She laughs and claps at the chaos of the wind and the beauty of the night sky. Even though the Sauvage and I are both in the car, I am the one who feels outside of the both of them. He looks at her with pride. "That's my girl" he tells me. As if I hadn't noticed, as if there was any way I could have thought otherwise. There will never be another woman in his life like her. And I know in that moment that I'll never be his girl...or anyone's. I'm nobody's girl but my own. Always have been, always will be.

Labels: frehel