Fragment #16 - So much for Saturday then

Maybe I should ask her out on Saturday night. We could go to the restaurant. It’s been a while since the last time we had some kind of a romantic dinner. Maybe it would be a tad cliché.
How am I supposed to do that? The American cinema overwhelmed us with pictures of romantic proposals. The same situation that was romanticism’s pinnacle in the fifties may now look like the height of absurdity. The very same thing happened about Valentine’s Day. Disregarding the commercial aspect of the celebration, men once were quite happy and relieved that they could on this one night, redeem a full year of neglecting. But it soon turned out to the greatest trap ever. Almost everybody condemns Valentine’s Day: day of the chocolate factories and flower supplies. But just try to forget it once…
Well the proposal suffers the same hang-up. The girl must not see it coming, yet it must be romantic above all things. It has to be wonderful, exciting, and original, whereas romanticism is the summit of conservatism in the way it settles events. It appears to me that nowadays’ men haven’t found their true place yet. The seventies changed too many things, and turned the couple model upside down. But where are the feminists when it comes down to making the first move of a relationship, or proposing someone? It is the guy’s duty. It HAS to be the boy. Inverse machismo, if you ask me.
Well the point is: if Melaine doesn’t see it coming if I bring her to a good restaurant and ask her to come with a dress, then I may consider finding another fiancée. I don’t want that.
Gosh! My head hurts. I haven’t slept last night as we generously celebrated our victory against Tourcoing. Best defence of the whole championship, my ass! We smashed their bottom out of the field. Ten blocks: this is what I call defence. I wish I was this good every other game. The balls came out of my hands faster than they were before coming in. Things look so simple when you’re good. I wish I could feel this emotion more often in my everyday life. Smooth movements, fluidity, efficiency. Who needs drugs when you exude adrenaline from every pore? When I play like that, I am already high.
Well, well, well. Thinking over and over again, I reached my home place. I thought it would have been longer, considering how heavy is the bag that I carried from the place the bus left us. I pat my coat and my pouches, looking for my keys. No metallic sound and no feeling of a hardness of any kind, I must have buried them inside the bag. There is no possible way that I go on and search thoroughly, I am too tired, and I can almost hear my bed screaming my name through the walls. I reached for the interphone and call the apartment; Catherine must be home by now. I hear her voice coming out of the device.
“Oui?”
“Honey, I’m home! Oh… I forgot… I’m not married…”
“Ethan please, not again… she says with a small laughter. Next time you say it, you stay out!”
I cannot help but smile. I like this girl.
An awkward sound echoes when the electric opening occurs, and I walk my way to the flat. I am still smiling while I climb up the stairs. I nearly expelled her the very first morning, when her radio shouted Celine Dion all over the place, but we settled things right. I really enjoy her company, even if I am not sure that my French really improved at all. She’s funny, and she enjoys pizzas and watching third-rate films as much as I do. My grin grows wider when I recall our “Soirée serpents” last Wednesday, when we watched both “Anaconda”, and “Cobra II”, laughing out loud.
As I walk past the kitchen, I slip my head into the opening.
“Jeez! You cooked for a whole regimen. I smelled it in the staircase but I thought it was our neighbours. What’s that for?”
She stares at me, both amused and desperate.
“Don’t tell me you forgot my party of tomorrow?!”
Fragments gather in my mind.
“Ouch. Your… how is it you call it again? ... Pendaison de crémaillère, isn’t it? Désolé, désolé.”
“Ne me dis pas que tu as prévu autre chose!”
“Non, non! Nothing important. Je serai disponible. I promised. But now, if you’ll excuse me, I am late of a night.”
As I begin to head towards my room, another girl walks into the kitchen. She’s covered with flour and grease, and she’s rubbing a wounded finger. A bit surprised, I cast a quick look at Catherine, before turning my head back to her. Yuk! She’s wearing a t-shirt supporting the SPVB. I recognized this silly dragon playing with the ball the moment I saw it. You traitor!
“Marie, Ethan, mon coloc. Ethan, Marie, mon aide cuisinière. My best friend.”
“Um, yes. Hi then!”
A few seconds later I’m off. I hear Catherine calling after me.
“Ethan! You won?”
I turn back and smile at her.
“You bet we did! Remember what I told you?”
Then I enter the room and collapse onto the bed. I’ll take my clothes off another time.