“Isn’t it funny how, in French, there is a word for husband: mari, and another for man: homme, but une femme is both a woman and a wife?” Alice says as she carries the tray of glasses to the coffee table. “And isn’t it funny how there is a word for son: fils, and another for boy: garçon, but une fille is both a girl and a daughter?” She strolls to the kitchen and brings a chilled bottle of white wine. “Funny may not be the right word. Would ironic work better?”
She cracks open a packet of pistachios and pours the contents into a glass bowl, then stares at me.
I open and close my mouth like a goldfish, hoping for an epiphany. This is dangerous territory; as slippery as a bayou. I nod and rise. “I’ll get the corkscrew.”
When I return, she wanders to the shelves, grabs the Yahtzee game, and places it on the table. “Women spend most of their lives being people pleasers; a pattern ingrained in them by their parents, by society.” She let out a sigh. “Blind… women are blind.”
“Hmm, hmm.”
“Some women like to wear skirts and dresses. Actually, some men wear them too; Scots and Jean-Paul Gaultier.” She snorts. “I doubt he has the same issue we do, though. Wearing a dress or a skirt doesn’t give you the right to film or take photographs of our underwear.”
Oh boy. Now her rant is targeted at me. Get me out of here.
“Une femme—as in a wife—might only be a woman in French, but that does not give you the right to do as you please with her.” She raises her glass. “Are you planning to open that bottle or just stare at it all evening?”
I pop the cork open and pour.
She gazes at her glass. “Have you any idea how tiring it is to be mothers, sisters, wives, daughters? We are tired and in pain.”
“In pain?”
“Have you ever had a period or given birth?”
“You never were pregnant—”
“Irrelevant. I speak for all women. You don’t acknowledge women’s pain. Funny, isn’t it? Since you can’t cope with it yourself.”
And here we go again. That cyst on my back WAS painful.
“At least we get to speak up—lucky us.”
I dare a quick glance at my watch. It’s 7:30 p.m. Our guests aren’t expected until 8 p.m. meaning I have at least another half hour alone with the banshee.
Alice downs her glass. “There are so many others who can't even do that; our sisters, muted, blinded, deafened, mutilated by culture, tradition, religion. Who are those men making those rules? Did a woman not give birth to them?”
I stifle a yawn and refill her glass. Her hand trembles, our fingers touch as I steady her glass. She recoils.
What has gotten into her? Is it that time of the month?
Alice gulps the wine down. “Why is it that men feel superior? Why is it that men think it normal to decide how we should dress, talk—or not, whether we should be allowed to go out alone—or not? Why is it that you think my body belongs to you? Why do men insist on women being hormonal when they rebel? Or better still, call us hysterical… As if men were not. Perfect beings… men. You wish.”
The cooker’s timer chimes. I jump to my feet. “I’ll check on the food, honey.”
“You do that, honey.” She glares at me and checks her watch.
The boeuf bourguignon is so tender it’s about to melt.
Alice follows me to the kitchen. “We indulge your fantasies. Of that, we are guilty, but a woman’s life is just as precious as a man’s. How could you—”
The front door bell saves me. At long last, our guests have arrived.
My smile melts like a Dali painting when I come face to face with two female police officers. “Hello... ladies… How can I help you?”
Alice shoves me outside. “All yours.”
“What?” She has lost her marbles. Hysterical indeed.
Alice’s voice is hoarse. Hatred lines her face. “I found your photographs and forwarded them to the police, honey. A new game has begun, and you no longer control the dice.”
/
DELPHINE GAUTHIER-GEORGAKOPOULOS is a Pushcart nominee Breton writer, teacher, mother, nature and music lover, foodie, dreamer. She loves butter, needs coffee, hates easy opening packaging, and likes to create stories in her head. She lives in Athens, Greece. X/Facebook: @DelGeo14.
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