The taste of French was foreign to her pallet. The way the R’s rolled or didn’t, the speed with which she watched her classmates spit them. She was a slow talker. Even in English. Especially in English.
In this class, she was not just learning another language, she was learning to be another person. The one that spoke with the lightness of a feather but you know, rapidly.
The more she learnt the less she felt equipped. It’s no wonder only 14 of 30 students remained. At some point you will have to decide if you are built for this or not and she hadn’t decided.
“Learn by conversations with your neighbours”, someone advised her every other day.
The curve of her hip still hurt from grazing a table as she tried to get away when a neighbour decided French lessons were French kissing lessons.
However, a new lady just moved in three doors down. She had seen her fluently giving the delivery guy, the length of her tongue in French. Something about Missing items or something about sugar or maybe she just said the delivery wasn’t sweet.
Her eyes zeroed in on the sugar jar she sitting on her shelf. Maybe it’s time to try another neighbour. Perhaps, she will make another friend, perhaps she will learn how to say leave me alone in La Langue Française.
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