Therese's Tale
This is another response to Che's story on the first page. Strangely enough I wrote this before reading chickenlady's and there are some silmilarities.

I've left out the sex. 3 stabs at it seems enough (pun intended)

******

Springtime in Paris. It seems like a lifetime ago.

It was 1985, I was living with Phillipe, we’d been together for 5 years and the white hot flame of our passion had burned itself out, and turned to cold ashes in my mouth. The day to day drudgery of his job in a small bakery, had changed his excitement at every new morning, to wearied resignation. I worked in a youth hostel - we tried our best to help the young people that came through our doors, but steady friendships with this ever changing flotsam and jetsam proved to be difficult. I loved my job though, even though I was only 32 at the time, I became a Maman to many of the rootless dreamers who passed through our doors. I tried to be available to listen to their problems, sort out their worries, hold their hands as they took their stumbling steps into a world obsessed with possessions and material wealth. They kept me young I suppose, and the sadder and more introspective Phillipe became, the more hours I spent at work, vainly trying to recapture that excitement and joy which was so missing in my life at home.

And then there came Nass. Little tiny Nass. So well travelled, so proud of her “Frenchness” she made me ashamed sometimes of the existence I was leading - her life was so FULL. She had dozens of friends; they always seemed to be laughing or arguing good-naturedly , I must confess that I was jealous of her and her friendly gang. Their lives stretched ahead of them, glittering and open to any possibilities. Strangely enough I think Nass sensed my unhappiness, and in a delightful reversal I found myself taken under HER wing. She included me in little outings, and suddenly I felt 19 again. God, we had such fun.

And then it happened. Che came to stay for a weekend. I’ve always loved the English; their humour, the romance that burns within them which they repress so utterly, they almost seem afraid of their passions so they gloss it over with their little jokes and sarcasm. Che was funny. His accent was dreadful, but I found it beyond sexy. He was Nass’ best friend, but I wanted him so much it actually hurt. One night we all sat around “On va au cinoche ce soir?” I asked, I had been led to believe that we were all going out to watch a film that he was very interested in. I wanted to get out of the hostel and into the night.

I pulled Nass to one side, “Are you and Che an item?” I asked as casually as I could. I think I blushed. I know that my mouth was working but my brain was screaming “What are you doing? What about Phillipe?” I got around that problem by employing some brain police to tie up Mr.Morality and keep him under armed guard. Nass’ eyes flicked as she stared at me. I shuffled my feet, embarrassed. “No, Therese, we are not an item” she placed a gentle hand on my arm, “Don’t let him hurt you” she whispered and turned from me.

I watched his hands as we sat on the train. His hands were strangely beautiful, he had long fingers which tapered suddenly to a gentle point. His nails were clean and well cared for. He was utterly unaware of my inclusion in the group. He chattered away, when he laughed I felt an odd little thrill that I hadn’t felt in years. I sat next to him in the cinema. I could not get comfortable. My trousers felt too tight, they rubbed against me pleasurably, but I throbbed and writhed. I ached to touch him. He was absorbed in the film, so I shifted and fidgeted, twitched and “accidentally” rubbed against him throughout the whole film. He did not bat an eyelash. THE FRUSTRATION! I could not tell you the first thing about “Brazil” I did not process one single word (apart from the fact that I hate subtitled films!) and I have never been able to sit through it since.

The train ride home. The train ride home was when I started making my move. (Mr.Morality started struggling a little bit, but the brain police administered a gag which seemed to help) I used all the old tricks. I leant forward a little too much, I hung on his every word (although to be honest his accent was so endearing I really, really did listen to him very closely) Finally he noticed me. Although, thinking back quite a lot of his conversation was directed my chest - Hey, he was English!

I had made sure that I had stocked up very well on some pretty average red wine. We all tumbled into my room at the hostel. I had taken a room of my own by then, I claimed that I needed to be close for some of the bad cases that came through our door. The truth was that by now, I was happier at work than I could ever be at home. (Phillipe had just shrugged when I told him) I kept a close eye on HIS glass, and topped him up whenever he ran short. I drank water. Eventually, I leaned towards him and whispered in his ear “would you like to take a shower with me?” his reaction was not what I expected. Shock, incredulity, fear and then finally, lust. (Thank God) We kissed, and kissed and kissed. The others must have left, I don’t remember.

We pulled down the bed and went at it like teenagers. Oh! The panting, sweating excitement of it all. When I fell asleep I dreamed of English castles, knights on chargers, and Phillipe.

The next morning at breakfast he asked me if I lived with my parents. I was astonished. A little worm of guilt started to eat my happiness. “No!” I laughed “I live with my boyfriend” He looked stricken. The worm turned into a snake. It writhed in my gut. What had I done?

We met once more. That afternoon. We went to a hotel that Phillipe and I had once gone to. It wasn’t the same. The sex was magnificent once more, but my heart wasn’t in it. The snake had turned into a basilisk and Mr Morality was well and truly freed from his gag and bounds. Phillipe, Phillipe.

We went for a coffee. He probably gazed adoringly into my eyes as he lit my cigarette with his zippo. He held my hands and promised to write. He left.

I went home. Sore from the sex, not only physically but emotionally. I opened the door to my apartment and found Phillipe crying on the sofa, smoke unfurling lazily from his cigarette. I froze. “I know” he croaked “I know where you’ve been”

I wrote to Che once. I was drunk and tired once more. He didn’t reply.

Phillipe and I married the following January. A cold, frosty wedding. We’re still together. He owns the bakery now, I left the hostel and raised a family. They’ve grown now and left my little nest.

Sometimes, when I’m on the train, I remember Che, smile and think, "Che La Vie"
( my_cat_has_no_shoes meh meh meh MEH MEH, Tue 5 Feb 2008, 18:13, 8 replies)

ahhh Therese,
why did you marry that boring French bastard?
(Stu Moo winner of five nobble piece prizes, Tue 5 Feb 2008, 19:48, closed)

Very well written

( jim_bob can herd cats., Tue 5 Feb 2008, 20:24, closed)

Hang on, are you French?
If so, how did you learn to write English so well?

It's amazing. Most native speakers have much worse written English.

Just one little mistake, using the past participle when there is no perfect aspect in the verbal phrase.

If you are French, my hat comes off to you. A brilliant achievement.
( The Awful Puppy Bakery is still bored, Tue 5 Feb 2008, 20:33, closed)

Thanks my_cat
Really nicely told tale - probably closer to the truth than my story.

Will read it properly later.

May change my tagline to: 'Un-gag Mr Morality!'
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Wed 6 Feb 2008, 9:24, closed)

What a lovely story...
... and I haven't got a romantic bone in my body.
( girlinthehole, Wed 6 Feb 2008, 10:07, closed)

Excellently done :)
*clicks*
(fatharry, Wed 6 Feb 2008, 11:46, closed)

Much respect
Very nice thing you've done then, although a happier ending would have been nice.
(paxvobiscum, Wed 6 Feb 2008, 14:47, closed)

The moral of the story
is read the answers in order. I just read this and thought it was terribly serious and, frankly, not the kind of thing we want here. Then I read Che's first and in that context... lovely.

That would be a click then.
(tinypod will never learn. Ever., Wed 6 Feb 2008, 15:44, closed)