On the way back from a Slurpee run yesterday afternoon, I stopped to get the mail. There was a pretty postcard from Peggy's Cove in Nova Scotia addressed to Katr. Because I am a nosy so-and-so, I fully turned it over and read it. Here is what it said:
Hey, Kate!
Last postcard I'll be sending before I get back to the T-dot. Hope the weather is nice there, as it's been raining here all week. Excited to practice french with you b/c god knows I need the practice to retain any of the stuff I learned. Been trying to practice breaking on my spare time (which is very little!) My journal is now half-filled with my daily blabberings of the day's events. Hope to see you soon when I get back in town! w/[heart] Louise
What the . . .WHO THE HELL IS LOUISE?
Firstly, I love the name "Louise", but feel that it is a fictional name, like "Fandango" or "Phyllis". The only Louise's I have known were in books or movies or my fishtank. As far as I know, Katr does not know any Louises either.
Secondly, for someone who took high school French in TEXAS, Katr's French is quite good and she uses it charmingly. But she is the first to admit that she is no more a French expert than I am a paleo-botanist. Therefore, Louise's excited wish to "pratice french" with Katr can only be construed as a euphemism. For ANOTHER KIND OF FRENCHING. You know what I mean.
Thirdly, no offense Louise, but "my journal is half-filled with my daily blabberings of the day's events"? If my girlfriend ever had an affair with someone who wrote a sentence that boring, I'd shit twice and die.
Fourthly, what "breaking" are you practising in your spare time? HEART-breaking? Is it HEART-BREAKING, Louise? GOD, your name cuts me like a KNIFE.
In my agitated state, my Slurpee acted as a balm, much in the way that Ron's lovely, moving post removed the sting of the Oiler's tragic loss of the Stanley Cup. But still, this Louise business rankled and when Katr got home, I pounced.
"You have a postcard," I said, "from a certain LOUISE."
"Oh?" She sounded so innocent.
"It's on the front hall table," I spat, "it's from Peggy's Cove."
Sounds of Katr wandering over and picking up the postcard. I could stand it no longer.
"WHO IS THIS LOUISE?" I said, my eyes flashing crazily, my tongue tinged green with Slurpee, "Why is she sending you postcards?"
"It's not FOR me," said Katr, calmly. "It's addressed to a DIFFERENT Kate. Kate [not Katr's last name]."
"But -" I sputtered, "it's addressed to our apartment!"
"Nooo," said Katr, pointing to the address, "It's addressed to our BUILDING. Someone's written the apartment number in after - probably Dave, downstairs."
Sure enough, our apartment number was in a different colour ink. I felt sheepish. And still a little crazy.
"I was just testing you," I said.
"Sure you were, Sherlock," she said, "sure you were. 'Cause your mind - it's like a steel trap."
So, hey - if any of you are named Kate? And you have a friend named Louise? And your friend Louise was just in the Maritimes? And you speak French and enjoy "breaking"? Yeah, I have your postcard.
