Language
written through google translate “Bonjour Mademoiselle,” he said confidently, the seven years of French class like an army behind him. “Bonjour,” she could already tell he was not native, but she liked that about him. She preemptively moved to avoid the coming miscommunication. “I speak some English,” she offered, “if it would— be easy.” She often felt as though the there was a certain romance in wordlessness. A certain mystique in allowing bodies to speak. It was as if they could be transported to Rousseau’s Natural State, “wandering with no industry through the wilderness, without speech, without home.” She wanted to connect like that. "Yes, please," he gave a nervous laugh that was more gasp for air anything. He had been on the wall jazz club for 20 minutes wondering if such a beautiful life existed to match this girl, this woman. It was even theorized when a man walked up to her and he saw his future amorphous die in the mist. The man was, in fact, going to the toilet, but the adrenaline that comes with its hypothetical loss was enough to propel this beauty. He used all his mind corrective French could offer. "Do you like music?" Stupid! Does she like music? Why not ask yourself if she likes the food next? "Like the kitchen?" Not literally! I have to stop telling my life. He hoped that the language could be the scapegoat for the crime of nervousness. She giggled. It was a flaming failure. She admired. "Yes, I do. Okay! Seat. Do you eh ... ehmm ... oh I do not know." Their eyes were laughing at each other and a sort of truce, the