a moment in time at the creperie.

“I could eat a cow,” I say. “I’m that hungry. I could just go out in the pasture and eat one.”

Paul snorts into his beer. “I could see that,” He titters, “I could see Anne running after a cow with a fork and steak knife.”

I pound on the table. “When’s it gonna be here?!”

They bring a bread basket and we all dig in. I rip off the crust and eat it. 

“I’m delirious with hunger,” I say.

We have delirious hungry conversation. We talk about our families as groups of chattering French people pass by the window, peering in. Far away in the kitchen of the creperie, there is the sound of laughter and sizzling but here there is only the clock ticking on the wooden wall.

“I was brought up to hold my fork like this,” Chastity is saying, demonstrating with two fingers. “That’s my dad’s side of the family. My grandmother wants me to uphold the family name while I’m in France. She wants me to remember my upbringing as an Andrews. Do you guys think I’m doing a good job?” She laughs and takes a gulp of wine.

“My grandmother was forcing makeup and dresses on me since I was six,” she continues, “And I’m not allowed to wear the same outfit in front of her twice. I’ve never seen her wear the same outfit, she has three closets full of just shoes. You guys wouldn’t believe my grandparents. They’re Republicans. Conservative. They voted for Bush! I think that just about says it all. ”

The food arrives with steak knives for Paul and me. We’re practically using them before the plates are set down.

“My father writes books about trolls,” I volunteer between mouthfuls. “One troll, actually. Her name’s Glenda. He thinks we met her on Mt. Cardigan and that she followed us home, and she likes to write me letters and shit. Apparently Glenda’s living out in our woods right now, peeking in the windows and eating berry pies. She’s trying to learn French, and she snuck onboard a lobster boat to come find me, but the lobsters bit her so she turned back. My father did a lot of drugs back in the Sixties.”

The clock chimes. A French couple enters and are seated far away from us, in the back. 

"I have two sets of parents," says Paul. "Real and adoptive. The real parents live in India and send me Christmas cards asking when I'm going to come visit. They act like I'm some distant relative, a charity case. The adoptive ones, well, they're nice and all. But they don't really know a whole lot about giving love." He takes a swig of beer. I'm guzzling water like its my job.

"I have to pee." I stand up suddenly, shaking the table. I wedge myself around it and Chastity has to move her chair for me.

"God," she mutters, rolling her eyes.