the blonde and her boys

For the past five days I've walked the streets of this small town with a young man on each side of me.

I joked to a man selling foie gras at the market that they were both my boyfriends, and when he laughed and said that I must be pregnant one of them responded: “Yeah, we really have no idea who the baby belongs to.”

The young men are actually just friends from my high school grad class, and although I’ve never been very close with either, I’ve always loved their easy-going attitude and sense of humor.

During their stay we danced early into the morning at a club out in the country, sat around the dining room table eating meals we all prepared, played cards and drank with a vengeance. We visited local wineries, nearby towns, and the giant grocery store with the yoghurt aisle so large it brings me to my knees. The yoghurt flavors are a rainbow of pleasure: fifty varieties of plain, vanilla, lemon, chocolate, prune, kiwi, caramel, coconut, and so much more.

We sat at the statue of the Virgin and admired the stars, walked down country roads and lay in a field of grass trying to soak up early summer sun.

Last night we walked down to a friend’s country home at midnight, the stars blazing down on us, the surrounding fields a blur, and the road a path of darkness. We walked quickly to avoid getting cold, our singing and laughter ringing through the surrounding crops.

They’re traveling around Europe for six months, and were glad to have a break from hostel beds and cheap fast food.

I enjoyed their company, and loved being the sole female in the group. I loved cooking our large hearty meals, drinking and listening to music, and trying out a variety of French cookies from the local grocery store.

Still, it was hard trying to please others during my every waking hour. The town doesn’t provide much entertainment, and I was afraid they would get bored, that their yawns would bounce off the surrounding shutters and down my sensitive eardrums.

I took no time to write, read, or hear myself think. I was directing my energy towards my visitors, and had little remaining for anything else.

We dropped them off at the train station this morning, and watched them climb on an old train headed for the city. I hope that they’ll remember our little piece of France.

And while they head to their next of many destinations, I’m trying to take from where I left off. To find my words on the page once more, my head planted solidly on my shoulders, and my love aimed towards my mother, since our time alone was cut short.

I’ve also taken on numerous small jobs cleaning and painting, and will be glad to feel myself hard at work. After a week of heavy drinking, I’ve a few sins to wash away.