A squandered moment
634 Words
A beat skipped in her chest. Her rhythm became erratic. She abruptly stood up, feigning the need to put her cup away.
"Are you going somewhere this morning?" he asked, now leaning against the doorframe.
What’s wrong with him? Why does he ask such senseless questions? Of course I'm going somewhere. Can't he see I’m dressed? Or is he doing it on purpose, knowing how sensitive I am?
"Not really. I thought of going to the garden. To check on Mom's plants a bit. It’s been a long time."
He nodded.
"If you like, I'll come with you."
She looked at him, hesitated, then accepted with a nod.
"Okay."
But why didn't I refuse? It was precisely to flee him that I pretended to put my cup away. Or perhaps, truthfully, I love all these things that happen to me in his presence?
They went out together into the small garden behind the house. The air was still cool. The leaves rustled softly. Emma knelt before a mint plant, brushed the stems, inhaled their scent. Serge, silent, observed her.
"You know," she said suddenly, "Mom used to come here every morning. Even when she was sick. She said it was the only place where she didn't feel like a prisoner."
"She was right."
"I think that's why I came back. Not just for Dad. Not just to escape. I think I needed to come back to where I felt whole."
He didn't reply. But why couldn't he approach, slowly, towards me? And act, pretend to be interested in the plant just to hold my hand. Do I have to do everything, all by myself, to experience this attraction? Frankly, what kind of man is he to leave such a heavy task to a fragile woman like me?
Suddenly, she felt his hand brush her shoulder. An almost involuntary gesture, caused by him passing too close. He withdrew his hand immediately. But what is he doing? Did I tell him his involuntary gesture bothered me? Me, who would have encouraged him by letting him continue if it had been a voluntary gesture from him.
A voice in the street broke her thoughts. It was old Soglo, calling from the other side of the fence. Emma half-rose and instinctively recoiled, putting distance between them. She remained crouched, hiding from old Soglo.
Serge turned his head, briefly replying to the greeting.
"Serge, whatever you do, don't let him know I'm here. Try to keep that old gossip away from me."
"Are you fleeing him? Are you afraid he'll point out that you've grown up?"
"Please, just get rid of him."
"I’ll leave you the honor of doing it yourself."
"Serge, you're so wicked to suggest that."
Serge laughed, with a wry smile that could shift at any moment.
"Hey! Mr. Soglo, looking fully in form this morning, I see."
Emma's fingers absently caressed the basil leaves with a certain frustration. She still felt the warmth of his hand on her shoulder. But old Soglo's voice was too distracting for her to concentrate on that brief touch. The old man's voice seemed to be getting closer instead of staying far away, as she wished.
Emma, still crouched, turned away from the two of them. She was enraged and showed it, but Serge didn't care.
Those two useless men! All they do is chatter. Serge, he just makes me pity him, she grumbled in her thoughts with fury.
"I'm going inside," she said. "I need to write a little."
"Pretext!" Serge exclaimed.
"Think what you want, I don't care, you sorcerer."
Serge laughed; he clearly enjoyed this teasing scene. And that hardly suited Emma.
"Do you still write?"
She didn't answer. She crawled on all fours to escape the garden without being noticed. She took refuge inside the stable.
- Writer
