Nobody likes it when a monstre stops laughing.
A hundred kilometers away, in a tiny town called Maule, where Guillaume is house-sitting and dogsitting for Annie and Eric, the barbecue was succulent. Tournedos and salad and rice, and the broccoli and cauliflower gratinee that I scraped together from grocery leftovers.
The wine was divine, the conversation rife with laughter, the air outside crisp and wet with earth, where we could actually see stars.
I'd forgotten what the big dipper looked like.
But nearing on midnight, the conversation was thick but it was time to go home.
Approaching one in the morning, people started muttering about sleeping there.
Big house, lots of beds, sure.
You guys go ahead, I'm cabbing it home so I can pick up my princess like I'd planned too.
"Awww c'mon, we'll leave at five and be there on time."
"I'm not risking it. It took us an hour and a half to find our way here. I don't want to play with that in the morning. The highways get more complicated when you're tired."
"Awww c'mon..."
"You guys do what you like, but I'm heading back to town. I'm sorry, I'm usually game for most things, but not tonight. Not the day before my princess arrives. I've been looking forward to this since November. I only get to pick her up from the airport once. Playtime is for later."
"But..."
And then the monstre stopped laughing, and you should have seen them rush for the car, despite my protests that they didn't have to.
We tried singing on the way back, conversation came in spurts, but everytime I would drop into thoughts of this or preparations for that, some voice would peep up and ask if I was alright.
Fine, just fine. Perfectly, even. Excited for less than four hours from now when she'll be on this same big golden couch with me.
People just aren't used to seeing a monstre stop laughing.
Which is a good thing, I think, but it leaves me wondering still somehow.