Yearbook
That Yearbook had been open for quite a while, white and black pictures had been showed and stories told based on those static and smiley faces. While they were sitting on his bed, his dog, a white lab was sleeping under his desk, unaware, as well as he was, of the question looming:
"I bet you've fucked all this girls, haven't you"
That question was asked locking her eyes with his and looking straight into his pupils. She didn't bother staring at his honey/brown eyes that 15 minutes ago had been protected by prescription glasses. She dived right into his pupils and went straight into the deepest corner of his heart.
"haven't you . . ." He could hear the echo disseminating throughout his entire body. It was not a "have you . . . ?" type of question, it was a "Haven't you". That is normally asked by who already knows the answer, and doesn't expect one. She expects a reply, a reaction, and you better don't have your pants down when trying to come up with one.
She doesn't ask questions trying to find or trying to catch a lie, neither to make him nervous. That's the kind of statement asked with that self confidence in her eyes that could make the most "macho" of the group, tremble. Paul, his best friend would have said that if he was the most macho of the bunch he wouldn't have to be answering questions, I'll be asking them! Poor baby.
"I bet you've fucked all this girls, haven't you".
This was asked one time; and letting a second pass before replying could seem like 9 years in a force labor camp up in Asia. She didn't smile and didn't expect one; don't bother clearing your throat before replying, she'll be gone before that; starting your reply with an "eh . . ." would just make her act like if she had never known you. Even if she went this far to sit in your bed with you, wearing that little skirt while your parents were at that fundraiser.
Every time he's caught off guard, his Latino accent gets thicker and words don't flow as easily. That night however, his accent was as southern as a sweet ice tea, and his mind sharp as the sword that that Ninja used to kill his enemies with in that movie that he saw few days back while trying to fall sleep. And yes, he did reply.
When he walked her to the bus station later that night, she knew she wanted more. But not right now, it had been enough, plenty is the word that she will write in her diary. Plenty, in capital letters and few flowers around his name.
Many years later at the divorce court, she would remember him through the word "plenty" shouted by her lawyer in his closing statement: ". . . plenty of evidence, ladies and gentleman of the jury! . . ." She would get 50% of her husband's millions, plus the custody of those brats.
But she would realized then what she already knew: that the most "macho" of the group, was the one who shared with her the stories contained in his Yearbook, many years ago.
"I bet you've fucked all this girls, haven't you"
That question was asked locking her eyes with his and looking straight into his pupils. She didn't bother staring at his honey/brown eyes that 15 minutes ago had been protected by prescription glasses. She dived right into his pupils and went straight into the deepest corner of his heart.
"haven't you . . ." He could hear the echo disseminating throughout his entire body. It was not a "have you . . . ?" type of question, it was a "Haven't you". That is normally asked by who already knows the answer, and doesn't expect one. She expects a reply, a reaction, and you better don't have your pants down when trying to come up with one.
She doesn't ask questions trying to find or trying to catch a lie, neither to make him nervous. That's the kind of statement asked with that self confidence in her eyes that could make the most "macho" of the group, tremble. Paul, his best friend would have said that if he was the most macho of the bunch he wouldn't have to be answering questions, I'll be asking them! Poor baby.
"I bet you've fucked all this girls, haven't you".
This was asked one time; and letting a second pass before replying could seem like 9 years in a force labor camp up in Asia. She didn't smile and didn't expect one; don't bother clearing your throat before replying, she'll be gone before that; starting your reply with an "eh . . ." would just make her act like if she had never known you. Even if she went this far to sit in your bed with you, wearing that little skirt while your parents were at that fundraiser.
Every time he's caught off guard, his Latino accent gets thicker and words don't flow as easily. That night however, his accent was as southern as a sweet ice tea, and his mind sharp as the sword that that Ninja used to kill his enemies with in that movie that he saw few days back while trying to fall sleep. And yes, he did reply.
When he walked her to the bus station later that night, she knew she wanted more. But not right now, it had been enough, plenty is the word that she will write in her diary. Plenty, in capital letters and few flowers around his name.
Many years later at the divorce court, she would remember him through the word "plenty" shouted by her lawyer in his closing statement: ". . . plenty of evidence, ladies and gentleman of the jury! . . ." She would get 50% of her husband's millions, plus the custody of those brats.
But she would realized then what she already knew: that the most "macho" of the group, was the one who shared with her the stories contained in his Yearbook, many years ago.
Jean-Francois was drunk at 9:20 PM
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