Hear the Wind Sing

33

The phone rang.

“I’m back,” she said.

“Let’s meet up.”

“Are you free now?”

“Of course.”

“Pick me up in front of the YWCA at five.”

“What do you do at the YWCA?”

“French lessons.”

“French?”

“Oui.”

After I hung up the phone, I took a shower and drank a beer. When I finished it, the evening rain started in like a waterfall.

When I made it to the YWCA the rain had almost completely lifted, but the girls coming out of the gate looked distrustfully up at the sky as they opened and closed their umbrellas. I parked on the side of the road facing the gate, cut the engine, and lit a cigarette. Soaked by the rain, the gateposts looked like two tombstones in a wasteland. Next to the dirty, gloomy YWCA building were newer buildings, but they were just cheap rentals, and stuck to the rooftop was a giant billboard showing a refrigerator. A thirty year-old seemingly telling the word that she was, indeed, anemic, was slouching, but still looking as if she were having a good time opening the refrigerator door, and thanks to her, I could take a peek at the contents inside.

In the freezer, there were ice cubes, a liter of vanilla ice cream, and a package of frozen shrimp. On the second shelf was a carton of eggs, some butter, camembert cheese, and boneless ham. The third shelf held packs of fish and chicken, and in the plastic case at the very bottom were tomatoes, cucumbers, asparagus and grapefruit. In the door, there were large bottles of cola and beer, three of each, and a carton of milk.

While I waited for her, leaning on the steering wheel, I thought about the order in which I would eat the food in the refrigerator, but, at any rate, one liter was way too much ice cream, and the lack of salad dressing for the lettuce was lethal.

It was a little after five when she came through the gate. She was wearing a pink Lacoste polo shirt and a miniskirt with white stripes. She had her hair up, and she was wearing glasses. In just one week, she had aged almost three years. It was probably due to the hair and the glasses.

“What a downpour,” she said as she got into the passenger seat, nervously fixing the hem of her skirt.

“You get wet?”

“A little.”

From the backseat, I pulled out a beach towel I’d had there from my trip to the pool and I handed it to her. She used it to wipe the sweat off her face, then patted her hair with it a few times before she gave it back.

“When it started pouring, I was having coffee near here. It was like a flood.”

“Still, it really cooled things off.”

“Yeah.”

She nodded, then put her arm out the window to check the temperature outside. Between us, I sensed a different vibe than the last time we’d met, something in the atmosphere was a little off.

“Did you have fun on your trip?” I asked.

“I didn’t really go on a trip. I lied to you about that.”

“Why’d you lie to me?”

“I’ll tell you later.”