Boxing Day
London
Jed
I’m sitting on my bed, facing Ariane and Alex. The light is entering the window, bathing my bedroom in a cold blue. The weather is fine today, even though it is quite cold. “Yeah, really, Ariane,” Alex says, “everything’s cool here, you can party whenever and wherever you like, you could have a cool job at BA; Heathrow is not far…”
“Well, with all those strikes?”
“It’s fine,” I answer, “it’s over now. Strikes here don’t last.”
“Pas comme en France!” Alex replies.
Ariane continues: “You know, in France now, with You Know Who, strikes don’t last either.”
“Yes,” I say. “I even heard censorship is back on tracks.”
The conversation continues speaking about Carla Bruni, speaking about whether she would do a good First Lady or not. Anyway, no one of us really cares. France is far away now. And I’m much better without.
I start thinking about Jonathan, and how sillily I dumped him, because of politics. I was so childish at the time.
Well, you mean you’re not anymore?
I have grown up.
And what was this reaction about Julian?
Tais-toi, merde!
We decide to go downstairs, to speak a bit more to the rest of the family. They are still eating leftovers from the two days before. That’s what one does on Boxing Day, isn’t it? They where speaking about Mother’s chemo, but they stop as soon as they hear our voices. Irene smiles at us.
I can’t wait to have my presents. Yes, presents! Yesterday was Christmas. But today is even better. Boxing Day. I love England, where you give some other presents on the day after Christmas.
Alex gives me a book, by Stephen McCauley, called Alternatives To Sex. I already know I will love it! I kiss Alex on both cheeks. While our cheeks brush against each other, I hear him whisper: “See you on New Years Eve!” What does he mean? I can’t really ask him, as Ariane screams out of surprise when she opens her present. A beautiful brown leather suitcase is standing in front of her.
“Thank you Granny!”
Tonight, Alex is going to be in Archway, and the rest of the family in Chenôve, France.
These words from Alex, as well as the vaporous contact of our cheeks, and the term Boxing Day make me thinks about the wooden box silently waiting for me under my bed.
Don’t move! Tonight, I’ll be next to you. I’ll caress the shape of the fork engraved on your lid, and open you slowly, to read again and again the letter Alex left me last year.