Shame

Why am I always putting up with this? What an embarrassment would it be if someone, especially someone I knew, saw me with unkempt hair in my pizza-stained hoodie and pyjama bottoms! Not to mention my bleeding lips. Fortunately, the dim light in the park won’t reveal the traces of another fight with Marcel to occasional joggers. I won’t even need to cover the scratch on my cheek with makeup tomorrow before work. Home office is not that bad after all. If Marcel could tame his temper at times, it would even be bearable.

Why are people complaining about staying at home? No cafes, bars, restaurants, and clubs. So what? I grew up like that. I had nothing, and there was nothing out there for me. I liked being on my own. Maybe that’s why social isolation does not feel out of the ordinary to me. If my father hadn’t been drinking so much, I could have stayed at home even more. Instead, my mother and I always had to escape through the back door so that he could wreak havoc at home without interruptions. There is no way I am coming back there. I would have spent the whole winter shovelling the snow in the yard. Here it hasn’t snowed at all this year. Not even on Christmas. I am not giving up on the life I am building here because of a few scratches. I don’t even taste the blood on my lips anymore.

Is Marcel even going to get outside and look for me? The benches are too cold to sit on, and I feel too weak to keep walking around. Something is moving in the bush! Please be a hedgehog... I haven’t seen one since moving to France. You are not a hedgehog, merely a bird pulling a worm out of the ground like a strand of spaghetti. Every year when it was time to plant potatoes back at home, the ground would be full of worms. To me, spring has always felt like another chore. I still remember how my mother and I noticed a bunch of snowdrops near our vegetable garden. They had never grown there before. She told me, “Oh, I wish you could once have a husband who would treat you like a delicate flower”. I did not answer. What was the point of daydreaming about a man when I couldn’t get the sight of worms out of my head before falling asleep? I wish I was treated like a delicate flower too. But you can’t have it all, can you? At least my mother would often repeat that...

Is it Marcel approaching me? No, just a random man. That is a fine perfume that I can smell from a safe two-meter distance. I bet he would never hit a woman. Those who wear floral perfumes never do. They also happen to be the ones never noticing me. I don’t look presentable now, so at least once it works in my favour, but I’ve always wondered what it feels like to be admired.

One day I am going to move out. Maybe after the quarantine is over. Time will tell. I need to consider my options and see how things go. I could find myself something affordable on the outskirts. It won’t be spacious like Marcel’s flat and the living room won’t overlook the park. At least the bedsheets won’t be full of crumbles and I won’t be screamed at. I’ve put so much effort into turning that bachelor pad of Marcel’s into what I hoped to become a proper home. The one I have never had. The fluffy duvets and succulents did make it cosier, but I could still leave this place without looking back. Just like I left my hometown.

Is it Marcel over there? Finally, it is him. It is high time he showed up. He does not seem angry. The storm is over. Running out of the flat and slamming the door has become my proven strategy for spinning everything in my favour. He is getting closer and looking at me with those puppy eyes. He has just hugged me too tightly and taken a step back. What a relief it has been to breathe in spring air not mixed with the scent of his citrus shower gel. At least, for the next few days, I can rest assured that his guilty conscience won’t let him hurt me. He is apologizing and calling me “mon amour” again and again. We are finally on our way to our flat. To his flat. He is holding my hand telling me that he has already ordered Thai food and I don’t need to cook tonight. How generous! 

One day I will find a nice flat. Then I will move out, bring my succulents with me, get myself some decent furniture, and call my mum to tell her that I broke up with Marcel. I won’t tell her the real reason why, of course. She will hear some generic excuse for leaving him: “things weren’t working out well” or “it seems that we are incompatible”. My mother will never know that I let a man hurt me. Not after witnessing her putting up with my father all these years. His beatings never ended with lips bleeding. I should consider myself lucky. I bet she would love to hear me say, “You were right, mother, moving to Lyon to live with a Frenchman I barely knew was not my brightest idea”. But it’s not happening. Nobody will rub my mistakes in my face. Ever. And I am certainly not moving back home. I will wait out the quarantine and then I will be free once again.

Is it the delivery man waiting at the front door? I need to face away from him. He’d better think I have bad manners rather than see my face and put two and two together. One day I will move out, but tonight I’m having Thai for dinner.