Bordeaux means me sleeping late on Saturday.
It means me stretching in an empty bed,
he’s already up,
catching up on work,
fetching croissants,
feeding the kids,
placing pool towels and sun-protection on the open kitchen counter.
It means him hearing me flush and rinse.
It means him heating milk,
bringing me café au lait to bed,
asking what I want or need,
the buttered croissant melting on my lips and tongue.
Sometimes it means
I come quickly, quietly,
face down in bed.
Sometimes it means
I say
“thank you, I love you”
as he lets me stay in bed a little longer.
It means my cackle of girls waving their hair in the air, laughing, lounging by the pool.
It means one of my cats pawing my cheeks,
me getting up slowly
to shower,
to apply cream,
to stay naked under a flowing dress with spaghetti straps,
the airy cotton fabric floating on my breast,
my hips leading where I walk.
It means packing two Portuguese water dogs and our cackle of girls into the car,
strolling the aisles of Capucins Market,
stopping
for gâteau basque,
for oysters,
for baguettes.
It means me walking ahead with my teens either side,
my first baby slightly shorter,
my second walking taller than me, straight, her arm hooked into mine.
Heads turning every time we turn an aisle.
They say:
“Mommy, the artichokes look good today.”
“Mom, the steaks at the butcher look yummy.”
It means him walking behind,
one hand holding our little one’s hand,
one hand carrying my tan leather handbag,
like a good husband.
It means spotting a café,
inviting him to sit with me in the sunshine,
grand crème for me,
noisette, my chest on display for him.
It means the girls exploring the market and stalls on their own.
It means my teens rolling their eyes at having to watch their little sister.
It means returning home with
white lilies,
pink and fuchsia roses on stems long,
artichokes, scales bright and green,
aubergines spongy, firm, shiny,
lettuce crisp and cold,
roast chicken,
entrecôte,
red peppers, long and sweet.
It means half-played songs drifting around the house,
teens too cool to splash,
lounging in the afternoon sun,
my little one in and out of the pool,
in and out of the living area,
back in the pool and out again.
It means me putting the groceries away,
leaving the steak out at room temperature,
preparing his station,
chopping board,
knives,
carbs,
vegetables,
a glass of Chardonnay cold, condensing in the evening sun.
It means me pinching his bum with the new cooking tongs I spotted at Auchan.
It means me stretched out on my sofa lounge,
playing cute little games on my iPhone,
introducing old movies to my girls:
Ghost, Walter Mitty, Joy Luck, Crouching Tiger.
It means sharing a bath with my little one,
her baby skin against my soft, stretched belly.
It means dinner will be late,
exquisite,
fussed over,
nudged into position on the plate.
Petra slicing concassé, crushing garlic, drizzling olive oil, toasting pain de campagne, making bruschetta.
It means Pheby, my little one, placing spoons, forks, steak knives, napkins on the kitchen dining counter, constructed like a teppanyaki station.
It means entrecôte precooked in the oven,
finished pan-seared in butter,
the end cuts medium for me,
the centre blue for our girls.
It means Petra asking after dinner:
“Can we have pancakes?”
Him saying: “May we! Now?”
Her shrugging: “Ok.”
Our little one joining in:
“Yes! Pancakes.
We can make it Opposite Day!”
It means him saying: “Opposite day it is! Let’s make pancakes.”
It means me rolling my eyes,
It means my 16-year smiling like she did at three.
It means the little one orbiting her father,
mixing the batter,
pouring batter,
directing the stacking.
It means me asking if there’s a pancake for me,
getting the first they made.
It means me resetting the kitchen,
him finishing his wine,
resting on one of the bar chairs vacated by his women.
It means I’m already in bed when he steps out of the shower.
It means me turning away,
onto my side and saying, “Come here.”
It means him spooning behind me,
me taking his hand,
placing it between my thighs.
It means I don’t move much.
I don’t need to.
When my breath settles,
when my hips drop,
I grip his wrist and guide his hand away.
I say, “That’s enough.”
