I like this Girl

A Happy Meal (March 10, 2009)

 

This girl, I love.  I like to give her pleasure.  I feel like inviting her for lunch. I love to sit by her and look at her profile. “All right” she said “but we go to MacDonald. It has been so long…”  She craves nuggets dipped in ketchup.  If our relationship last then I will teach her many other things, many other kinds of fine meals. I won’t argue now: I know how girls are; they are just promising.

 

Along the way, I compliment her shoes. “Don’t tell me that’s the first time you noticed them. I got them in Christmas” she replied. I then compliment her socks.  She berates me my stupidity.  She is the most beautiful girl on the street.

 

I feel a surge of disgust as I enter MacDonald. The women are ugly and fat people stays in line. She is holding my hand gently and her little finger caresses the inside of my palm. My heart is in turmoil.  She changes her mind several times before settling for nuggets and a caramel sundae. I pick up the trays and she precedes me and selects a quiet corner. 

 

“You prefer a smoking section, don’t you? Yes, you do. I know” she said.  Faces turn on her passage; she does not even notice them. She sits and slowly unties her scarf.  She nods her head trice before I can see her slim neck. I am standing and waiting for her to invite me to sit down.  “Why don’t you sit down?” she said.  I say: “I was looking at you”  “You will look at me later. The food is getting cold” I said “You are right”  “I am always right” she said.  She is right almost always.

 

She elegantly opens her magic box of nuggets. I contemplate her hands and fingers.  She has a fresh coat of paints on her nails. She arranged her blonde hair with tiny barrettes. I cannot help but thinking that she has gone into so much trouble just for me. She dips her nuggets methodically in the ketchup.  I said “You really like that?” “Yes, I love them a lot.  They taste good” she said

 

She does not talk much but I am accustomed to her habits.  All sorts of people fascinate her.  As she is engaged at looking around I take advantage studying the details of her beauty.  I love the shape of her eye lashes, her tiny nose, and the lobes of her ears and then she noticed that I was scrutinizing her face.

 

She eats the tiny crunches of peanuts on her sundae and the caramel but does not touch the ice cream. I tell her to get a refill of caramel but she refuses saying “I know they won’t” I am thinking what we are to do next?  Where shall I take her?  Will she give me her hand? She wants to know where we might spend summer vacation.  The best I can do is figuring out where to take her next after lunch.

 

She folds her napkin before cleaning her mouth. She smoothes her skirt and readjust the collar of her shirt.  She takes her bags and nudged her head to me in the direction where I should dump the plates. I open the door for her. She reties her scarf and takes her hair out of her jacket.  She decided to take my arms.  This girl, I love.  She is mine.  She is seven of age.

 

Note:  An abridged and slightly edited translation from French by the author Anna Gavalda.  This story could have applied in its mechanics to the behavior of one of my nieces with minor modifications.