Back when I thought I’d never get married, I picked up a little high school French. I could ask directions to the
salle de bains and
bibliothèqe. I could order
une verre d’eau,
un croque-monsieur,
une plaque d’escargot. But what mattered most was learning to say
Je t’aime. Because I was never getting married, but there was, like, this guy, you know? My own language was too intimate, too real, too dangerous. When he passed in the hall, I’d whisper
Je t’aime,
Je t’aime,
Je t’aime, knowing that even if he heard me, I was safe—he was enrolled in German I.
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