le bonheur de vivre

15

Elodie, despite her usual inner clock, slept in the following day. It was strange for her to wake up to stark sunlight on her tender eyelids, the warmth on her cheeks. When thinking about it now, it did seem particularly hot. The type of hot that came about at 10am. It must have been what woke her up, the burning of her cheeks.

She was grateful for that burning. She didn't like sleeping in. It seemed like a god awful waste of time. Precious time, sinking, slipping past one's groggy dreamy grasp. Blissful wastage. But nevertheless, wastage.

It was also market day, and so she thought it a pity that she was lying in bed when she could be sitting up in an orange tree and people watching. And so she sat up, span her legs to the side of her bed, and made her way to the closet. She removed her fathers pink shirt and her flared jeans.

She had stolen the shirt from her father. The world, and her especially, knew it belonged on her. She looked damn good in it, especially with the top button undone.

She left it done up today. One could only guess if it was subconscious, a seemingly brief decision.

She would take her motorbike to the market. It would still be bustling, busy, and she could make a trip out of it. If she took some money, perhaps she could afford a baguette. If not, an orange would do.

Upon leaving her room, Elodie noticed how hot it really was. She felt in her throat, thick, tangible, tiring her limbs. The wind from the bay attempted to usher the stagnant warmth away, but each time a rapid bluster ended, the heat returned.

She would go barefoot, for convenience, and as she would so often remind herself, to strengthen the underside of her foot for future occasions. She passed through the kitchen swiftly on the way to the road, noting the cigarette and peach core in the bin.

Her motorbike grumbled when she first tried to remove it from its rest against the fence, but with sufficient frustration it's engine decided to start, and she was able to move it to the road, where she mounted the bike, removed the hair from her eyes, and begun up the road towards the peak of the hill.

The bike felt good under her, thundering, rolling, chasing after the climax of the islands side. When she reached it she paused to let the whispers of the Atlantic Ocean ruffle her uncombed hair. It was at that moment that she looked down at the bay and the night before came rushing back into her eyes, viscous and heavy. She looked for a little while, not knowing why she relished in remembering it. She could really feel it now.

She started off down the hill again, her smile greeting the workers down by the creole village whom waved at her. They hadn't seen that in a while.

The market was busy. Filled, swarming. Warm.
She parked her bike at the back, behind the fruit stalls and made her way to the edge of the market where the people were more sparse. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see Marie, who was standing, her chest puffed, her lips glossy, and her eyes intrigued.

"You didn't come to Colombier yesterday. We all went for a walk."

"I forgot," Elodie rather moronically, watching Marie chew and churn her gum round her creamy teeth. "And I went to see the property that our friends our getting."

Marie looked out over the crowd and back to Elodie.

"Was it nice?"

Elodie looked out over the crowds as well, searching between the figures.

"Yes, Yes."

Marie looked particularly unattractive when chewing gum. Elodie pitied her. Elodie pitied most girls. In the crowd Elodie saw Dora. Elodie pitied Dora.