ISSN 1758-6488
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Men in Love Fiction |
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TONGUE.
“He says you’re going to kill me when you find out.”
We’re naked in bed.
“He knows? How’d he find out? Did he beat you?” I say. She won’t answer, she leans into me and cries. She says a short sentence in French.
“You can’t talk to me in French.”
“You teach French but.”
“I teach American French to Americans. I don’t speak French.”
“I can’t speak it in English. I sound like babies talk. It’s Proust, you know him?”
“Sure.”
“You know Swann, so tragic.”
“No. I know about Proust. I never read him.”
“Little American,” she pats my cheek. “Proust means, people who are not in love think you meet somebody, count up all the good, take out all the bad. More good than bad? ‘Oh boy! I am in love.’ But this is literature. In life you say, ‘I must to leave this somebody. Soon. Next week even.’ But even next month you didn’t leave. You think, why? One morning, you wake up and know, ‘Oh! Terrible! I am in love!’"
“A lot for one short sentence to mean.”
“You think short means long because you don’t know how meanings go from one language into one other. Proust don’t say that, but means it every bit. ‘Oh! Terrible! I am loving you.’"
“He says I’ll kill you when I find out you love me?"
“No, stupid. He says you will kill me when you find out you don’t love me!”
“I love you.”
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