xxiv. provence

postcards from france

I come home from classes to find Agnès fuming in my room. According to her, it’s been at least several years since I washed my sheets or swept my floor, two things I insisted upon doing myself. But since these bits of housework are in my space and not hers, she can’t control them. This woman needs more hobbies.

It’s fine for Jérôme to act like this, but you? A woman? She’s yelling at me now. How do you expect to get a husband like this? How will you cook for him? How will you clean for him?

The more her voice rises, my face turns stony and emotionless. I say nothing as I lace up my running shoes and shut the door to the apartment behind me. I race through the night streets for a long time, wanting to run out my anger before I go back. I don’t want to say anything that could get me in trouble with ACCP, something like, you have wasted your entire life, Agnès, and never again feel like you can comment on mine.