Peintures vivantes - Joseph Descamps

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I hope you are enjoying my story!enjoy reading!!!!💜💜💜

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"The onion soup Mum made for lunch was too heavy for my taste. I hope to digest it by the end of the year!" commented Marion, as she watched me. She had a point. I brush my teeth thoroughly and spit the toothpaste into the sink, then rinse.

"Why do you brush your teeth so well?" asks Marion in a mischievous tone, making sly eyes. "I want to avoid having bad breath while I'm trying to study." I reply simply. "Can you tell me what time it is?"

Marion turns and checks in the clock by the bathroom cabinet. "14:50," she replies, turning back to look at me. "Hell. He's going to get here by 3pm and I'm still here in the bathroom and in my pyjamas chatting with you!" I squeal, in a rush. I run from the bathroom to my room, throwing open the wardrobe. I dive into my clothes in search of a decent outfit to wear.

Meanwhile, Marion enters the room with a plush stride and sits amusedly on the desk chair. "Calm down, otherwise your fringes will come up," she taunts me. "Shut up! I'm looking for a decent dress to wear. I certainly can't show up at the door in my pyjamas." I shush her.

"Whatever. You'd be doing him a favour, can't you see how pretty you are!" she teases me in a mousy voice. I turn to her and hurl a scarf at her head. "You're a clown." I scold her. "That's it!" I exclaim, taking a suitable dress in my hands. "This goes well with my shoes, wait," Marion tells me, disappearing from the room. After a few minutes, she returns holding her beige shoes.

I, meanwhile, have already changed. I thank her for the flats and put them on. I take one last look in the mirror. The sound of the doorbell alarms us.

Marion, without me being able to stop her in any way, disappears from my room and quickly descends the stairs. "I'll get it!"

"No stop Marion!" I shout to her, walking out the door. As soon as I reach the base of the stairs, I hear her voice. Sometimes I really think my sister is dumb. I slowly walk down the steps, pretending not to, and I see him there, leaning against the doorframe. As soon as he sees me, he sketches a smile.

"There you are Romy, what took you so long," Marion scolds me jokingly. I glare at her and approach the door. "Please come in" she invites him to enter our house. "Marion. Aria. You have to study too." I incite her, shooing her away. After giving me one last mischievous look, she disappears into the living room.

"I arrived on time." Descamps points out to me, with a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "Just as well, or else you'd stay outside and do the assignment." I answer him, trying to sound as serious as possible. "You're mean." He scolds me.

I lead him from the corridor to my kitchen, where my books are already ready. I turn towards him, and find myself too close. I take a step back. "If you give me your jacket, I'll hang it up for you." I tell him.

"Did you cook the onion soup?" he asks me curiously.

Instinctively, I bring a hand in front of my mouth. Oh God, I didn't brush my teeth well enough. "Why?" I ask him a little frightened. He, noticing my agitation, sketches a slight smile. "Don't worry, your breath smells far too minty. It's the kitchen that still tastes like onion soup. Never mind, it's one of my favourite dishes."

'Then I'd better air the room out a bit,' I say, approaching the two kitchen windows. I open them wide, and feel the cold settle on my skin. In the meantime Descamps has taken off his jacket and laid it on the back of a chair. This situation is making me very anxious, and I don't even know why.

"Well, do you have your French book with you?"

"Of course not." Always this unnerving tone.

"Silly me for asking." Not least because, I could have guessed it.

I quickly sit down in the chair opposite his, and give him a quick glance. Only now do I notice that he has a new bandage, leather. He no longer wears the surgical one. "Are you healing?" I ask him. Idiot! Why do you ask these inappropriate questions.

At my question, he looks confused. Perhaps he did not even expect this interest from me. He brushes the bandage with the fingertips of his hand, and ponders. "Yes, also because there is nothing left." He replies. I nod, trying to remain relaxed. "Alright. We have to do a paper on Jean Racine. You know who he is right?"

"Do I look ignorant to you?"

"No, no. I was asking." Why does he always answer so badly, isn't he capable of being nice once in a while?

"How about we go halfway with the paper and then for the presentation you talk about his life and I talk about his works?" I ask him.

He shrugs. "It's all the same to me, the important thing is that we both work." He replies. I don't know whether to be shocked, surprised or stunned.

After an hour and a half of searching, I look up and see him hunched over the book. Indeed, as he no longer wears glasses, he has to read closer to see properly. A faint spontaneous smile forms on my lips. "Do you want a snack?" I ask, snapping him back to reality.

"You call a cigarette break a snack?" This time, I decide to smile at him without hiding, and I see his gaze smile back. I get up from my chair and start to open the kitchen cupboard. I grab a box, containing my father's handmade biscuits, and place it in the centre of the table. As I fill two glasses with water, I hear him open the box.

"My father made them the other day, I hope they are good."

"They look good, if I'm honest." His tone of voice slowly begins to soften.

"Water? I was expecting a nice big glass of Cognac."

"You don't want to touch my father's bottle of Cognac, it might kill you." I reply, tasting a biscuit. I'm enjoying this light conversation; I didn't think it was possible to have a chat with him without arguing.

"Did someone say Cognac?" triumphs my father's voice, entering the kitchen with a heavy step. It is all too noticeable that he has just woken up from his Sunday nap.

"Hello, you are?" he asks in his usual slurred voice. Descamps gets up from his chair and shakes my father's hand. Damn, he's even taller than my father. "Joseph Descamps sir. I am a classmate of your daughter."

"is here because the French teacher paired us up to do a paper on Jean Racine."

"I love the tragic theatre of Racine and Corneille." He mumbles cheerfully under his black moustache. He takes two biscuits and shoves them into his mouth contentedly. I cross Joseph's gaze in passing, and that strange, conflicting feeling returns.

"Your father is nice." Joseph tells me, stepping through the door and down the three steps to my entrance. I stop at the door, closing my shawl for the cold. After lighting his cigarette, he turns to look at me. Every glance we have, fuels strange, complex feelings in me that I don't fully understand. "Thank you for helping me. With the assignment, I mean." I try to thank him, trying not to sound dumb.

He grimaces, and after exhaling a cloud of smoke, turns his back on me and walks away. "It's called teamwork for a reason." He tells me, smiling. It is the first time his smile seems genuine and true; and to be honest, Joseph really does have a beautiful smile.

I watched him walk away with his typical nonchalant step, one hand in his pocket.