The Out of Place Couple

 

 Marcus cultivated his inner Yul Brynner.

He'd been only 20 when he noticed his hair was thinning. He blamed his mother because he had read hair loss was passed on by the mother, boobs, via the father's DNA. More the luck for his big-breasted sister.

Baldness had not hampered his career as a lawyer in a big firm then later his own.

He made sure his wealth showed on his body. 

Walking through the vacation village, the first cold day of October, he still wore a sports coat, an Armani. His pants were creased and his trained trainers bore the name of the world's best tennis player.

Elodie walked beside him. She'd held up pretty well from their college days and raising two children.

Her blond hair looked natural, but he always pointed out if the tiniest dark root peeked out. 

He'd fired a secretary, a legal aide really and a good one, because she let her roots show.

"Coffee?" Eloise pointed to the café they were passing.

"Why not." He rubbed his hand over his pure Yul Brynner pate.

Too bad the village was deserted. No one to appreciate him at all.

Visit D-L Nelson's website www.dlnelsonwriter.com

The Missing Senator

Only three "senators" were sitting on "their bench" under the Vega Millionaire Banco sign, Marc, Pierre, Jacques.

Once there had been six of them, all recent retirees at the time, kicked out of their homes each morning by wives wanting to cook and clean without them being underfoot.

At first they talked about their old jobs, which gave way to chatter about grandchildren and the dismal performance of the local rugby team.

Their wives had thought it disrespectful to Jean to wear their regular sweats. They thought it showed respect to him being dressed as the did for their morning meetings.

Marc put his hand on the cool spot next to him. Last week Jean was there warming the wood. 

A hearse drove by on its way to the church a block away. They saw the flower-covered coffin through its windows.

"We can wait for the bells," Marc said. No sooner had he spoken and the bells started their dirge.

The men stood, removed their caps and headed for the church wondering who was next but none wanted to be the last man on the bench.

 

 

For the first time my  husband and I did our Tuesday Freewrite at the café on the corner from our flat: Mille et Une. Pain au chocolate or chocolatine as it is known locally, hot chocolate for Rick, vanilla tea for me and we were ready to write. The prompt was a dog sitting outside the tabac waiting for his elderly owner.

Rick's Freewrite

He appeared to be a mixed breed. Maybe part terrier, part cocker. Though his leash was wrapped around a pole, he made no attempt of lie down on the cold stone tiles of the street.

He knew his master would emerge from the tabac in short order -- he always did -- so Rags stayed alert in anticipation. After no more than three minutes, just enough time to buy a pack of foul-smelling Gauloise, his vigilance was rewarded. The leash was released, and Rags took his place walking even a hip-hop spring in his step as they passed the ladies of the fruitier.

D-L's Freewrite

Bob's head was bowed. His leash was wrapped around the pole outside the tabac.

What was taking his master so long?. In the other stores, he was kept by Fritz's side. The green grocer sometimes had a biscuit for him, his favorite, beef flavored.

The owner of the tabac was a witch. Why Fritz didn't take buy his paper and cigarettes at the tabac down the street, and the woman told Bob how beau he was, he didn't understand.

Bob knew the woman was nasty to everyone. 

Several other dogs walked by: Falco, Sherlock, Kenzie. He would have loved to greet them, sniff their butts, but was afraid he would miss seeing Fritz leave. Not that Fritz would forget him, or at least Bob hoped he wouldn't.

Maybe Fritz saw a friend to talk to.

No wait...

There he was with his blue sweater, white hair and twitchy mustache. 

Ready to go home Bob?"

Bob wagged his tail and walked at Fritz's side, ready for his morning nap.

Free Write

 

Today's Free Write's prompt was at a café table where several elderly people were seated on the terrace drinking coffee. We had finished our tea, and been visited by a dog from a neighboring table. He suspected correctly we had doggie treats. Sherlock did not want his own chair or the ground. Rick's lap was better. The sky was that blue so often witnessed in Southern France and seldom duplicated in the rest of the country.

Franck was the only man at the table with four women.

The weather was a perfect October day for sitting outdoors.

Twenty years ago, there would have been four couples, but over the decades Paul, Marcel and Jean had all passed on victims of cancer, a heart attack and a car accident, of all things.

For decades the four couples, neighbors in Toulouse, came to this coastal village for a week in October. They said it was better after the wave of summer tourists had disappeared.

Franck felt a bit left out as Marie, Angela, Jeanne and Fréderique delved into women's topics.

Good God, they were talking about their daughters' menopause and the best calcium for osteoporosis. 

If the other men in the group hadn't died, he would be talking about last night's football match: Japan versus Argentina and how France would do against the winner tomorrow night.

His  espresso was cold. 

His wife met his eyes. He knew, she understood what he was thinking.

This morning as they dressed before meeting the others, she'd said she was glad she wasn't a widow. He was too.

 

We went to a new cafe/clothing shop Coff in Shop for our Tuesday free write. We settled in a corner in arm chairs with two cups of tea on the circular coffee table between. The shop also offers used clothing of a higher quality than any charity shop I've been to in in the UK. The owner, the wife of my real estate guy, is charming.

The prompt came from a novel. It read, "She looked at her feet. "

Rick's Free Write

She looked at her feet.

They weren't that far away on the end of her shortish legs.

She rarely looked at them, except when a toenail snagged on her stockings and she realized they needed to be trimmed. She barely had the strength in her hands to squeeze the clippers together. So they always came out uneven and needed to be filed. 

No, she wouldn't go to the nail salon for a pedicure, yuck, soak your feet in someone else's dirty water! 

It's not that her feet were ugly. They weren't exactly petite, but they weren't fat and fleshy, like Lucinda's, her uni roommate. And hers didn't stink of toejam.

She took a last glance at her forlorn feet before holding up the pregnancy test onto which she'd peed.

Damn!

D-L's Free Write

She looked at her feet.

Yow! They hurt.

Three-inch heels, a too-tight strap across the arch -- what had she been thinking?

OK, so they made her legs look great. They weren't made to walk 10 blocks to meet her sister, who would be jealous and want them.

She should have worn sneakers, arrived early enough to make the switch.

That's what she usually did in case she had to run. That was life in the city. Have an escape route from danger.

The waitress brought her tea. The café was adorable -- arm chair and low, round tables. She chose it so her sister could see her shoes.

Jo Ellen walked up to her.

After the obligatory hug Jo Ellen cooed, "What cute shoes. I've a pair just like them, but I don't wear them. They hurt too much."