Life is too short for boring stories

The first sip of the beer finally washed away the last remains of the Christmas hangover. Relaxed Martinique leaned back and let her eyes wander around the restaurant. Finally she escaped. Of course, she could have spared all the excitement and the Christmas hangover. “Christmas Hangover,” she thought with amusement, and considered it her own invention. Maybe that’s what it was, though it was unlikely that a thought that had dawned on her wouldn’t have been thought of by someone else before her. It was this mixture of family madness and frankincense, folk religious customs and commerce that caused it. Even without a single sip of alcohol, she felt regularly beaten to death. Dizziness in the head and this irrepressible anger. Of course she could have changed it. But she did not dare.

Martinique, who was actually called that because her mother thought French was noble and stylish, had to pay for that peculiar preference. Her mother had not thought about that for a moment, on the contrary, she was sure she was doing something good for her. But mothers often think that and then do it completely wrong. Despite all the teasing Martinique had to endure at school, she did not blame her mother. At least that was because the daughter was smart enough to realize that her mother could not help herself.

“Martinique, sweetheart,” she used to say, “Your background and environment have certain obligations and requirements to fulfill. What else you think, that is your thing, but I urge you, do not disgrace your family. You do not want that? You’re my good girl?” Yes, she was the good girl, and that meant putting some of her intellectual skills aside.

“A woman who is too clever,” another wisdom of her mother, “does not get a man, or at least no useful one. They are afraid of too smart women. So make sure you look pretty and neat, no one will ever believe you’re too smart. “

Martinique kept that, too, and so she got a husband, and she got rid of him, because at some point, when she had him, the question arose, why was that so important, a man, so a useful one. Then she pulled the emergency brake, straightened up and finally stopped bending over. That was all it took to get rid of the man, the useful one. He was irritated and left. As a result, her family was even more irritated. But at some point they got away with it. She could not protest against at Christmas. She played along, even if that meant she was getting a Christmas hangover.

Martinique pretended to let her gaze wander, even though there was a point she could barely dislodge while her friends chattered happily.

He leaned casually against the bar, as men do. From time to time they had already exchanged a word, by the way, without obligation. It was not enough to go easy and engage him in conversation, but too much to talk like a stranger to him. He did not leave her, not out of her mind. She could not have explained it, but she did not have to. It was this certain irritation he caused in her and did not let her go days later. That had something that made her lively, but could also be annoying. And he, he did not even seem to notice her. Or did she imagine that too? She had to know. Now, immediately and on the spot. Resolutely, she pushed back the chair she was sitting on, got up, stretched, straightened her dress, and walked over to the bar so she came to stand beside him. But what should she do now? She felt his eyes on her. She became boiling hot, and the dizziness in her head returned, though quite another. The front did not go any further, not backwards either. Damn, what should she do. She would like to be immersed in the ground. Yes, sink, that was the lifeline, she would just sink down. A small swoon to escape. Either she would hit hard on the ground, even the reality, or he would catch her. And when she closed her eyes, gave way to her knees, and she began to resign herself to enduring a piercing pain every moment, she felt warm, strong hands, one on her shoulder, one on the bare skin of her thigh, just above the edge of her stockings, as the dress had slipped, and there was no doubt that she felt his hands that had caught and picked her up and down. She felt power and strength, but also warmth and security. It was not hard to confide in her simply.

Continue with Power-lessness (2): Christmas-kitten


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