I gingerly unfolded my stiff legs and stood up. No need to turn off the computer: I would not be gone for long. A little housekeeping?
The impeccable floor testified to my care; I had also put away the dishes. The dirty laundry, piled up in the wicker basket, would not suffice to load the washer. I opted for the recycling. The half-filled bag was so small that it needed to be emptied on a regular basis. That would do the trick, I thought, grabbing my set of keys. I slipped on a pair of shoes and closed the apartment door. The corridor had a hotel's discreet elegance, and I was still admiring the building's quietness as I entered the elevator.
I turned on the lights in the basement. The waste containers waited patiently, lined up next to each other. A cardboard box sat on one of the lids. Yes! I loved examining the items left by other residents; some sort of barter system connected us anonymously. One day, I had discovered a pile of reusable bags, unsoiled and neatly folded. They came from the most high-end stores in town, and I enjoyed using them.
After transferring my recycling, I looked inside the box. Pocket books exhibited the colorful covers typical of anglophone editors. Two adventure novels, an English-Spanish dictionary, and a volume on plants. Only one publication remained mysterious: white wrapping paper concealed its cover. Intrigued, I opened it. L'Orgasme féminin. I couldn't help but smile. I often welcome what is offered on a silver platter. There was only one step left: making sure it did not have a musty odor. Well, not only did it smell like clean, old paper, it also emanated a subtle trace of female perfume. Sold.
The next season, I was done studying the essay; my marriage was going better than ever. To whom could I forward the precious document? One of my colleagues had brought up the subject recently. I liked her, and felt sufficiently comfortable to pass it to her one day—along with a wink.
As Lola did not speak French well enough, she gave me back the book. It would have been simple to dispose of it. However, my gratitude toward its exquisite pages drove me to place it in my handbag. I would leave it on a bench on my way home, for a lucky stranger to pick up.
We had guests that evening, and I thought about the chocolate cake I had cooked the day before. Among its magical ingredients were mashed blueberries and whole wheat flour; I pictured our visitors' surprise. Only in front of our apartment block did I remember the book. The solution was obvious. I went in through the basement and left it on a garbage lid.
When I brought down the recycling the following day, L'Orgasme féminin was gone. Was it at the bottom of a dumpster? Did it captivate new beneficiaries? This second theory turned out to be true, because the tiny book reappeared after several months. Thus it was, punctually, for the three succeeding years, which caused me amusement, along with great joy. One day, it disappeared for good, but perhaps it pursues its course outside the building.
The impeccable floor testified to my care; I had also put away the dishes. The dirty laundry, piled up in the wicker basket, would not suffice to load the washer. I opted for the recycling. The half-filled bag was so small that it needed to be emptied on a regular basis. That would do the trick, I thought, grabbing my set of keys. I slipped on a pair of shoes and closed the apartment door. The corridor had a hotel's discreet elegance, and I was still admiring the building's quietness as I entered the elevator.
 |
| Intrigued, I opened it. |
After transferring my recycling, I looked inside the box. Pocket books exhibited the colorful covers typical of anglophone editors. Two adventure novels, an English-Spanish dictionary, and a volume on plants. Only one publication remained mysterious: white wrapping paper concealed its cover. Intrigued, I opened it. L'Orgasme féminin. I couldn't help but smile. I often welcome what is offered on a silver platter. There was only one step left: making sure it did not have a musty odor. Well, not only did it smell like clean, old paper, it also emanated a subtle trace of female perfume. Sold.
The next season, I was done studying the essay; my marriage was going better than ever. To whom could I forward the precious document? One of my colleagues had brought up the subject recently. I liked her, and felt sufficiently comfortable to pass it to her one day—along with a wink.
As Lola did not speak French well enough, she gave me back the book. It would have been simple to dispose of it. However, my gratitude toward its exquisite pages drove me to place it in my handbag. I would leave it on a bench on my way home, for a lucky stranger to pick up.
We had guests that evening, and I thought about the chocolate cake I had cooked the day before. Among its magical ingredients were mashed blueberries and whole wheat flour; I pictured our visitors' surprise. Only in front of our apartment block did I remember the book. The solution was obvious. I went in through the basement and left it on a garbage lid.
When I brought down the recycling the following day, L'Orgasme féminin was gone. Was it at the bottom of a dumpster? Did it captivate new beneficiaries? This second theory turned out to be true, because the tiny book reappeared after several months. Thus it was, punctually, for the three succeeding years, which caused me amusement, along with great joy. One day, it disappeared for good, but perhaps it pursues its course outside the building.
Photo © https://unsplash.com/photos/GQauWf1LQiw