In a previous writing exercice, we developped a character going through a quarter-of-life crisis. Mine was called Anne-Laure, 27, and worked as a consultant in Brussels. This exercice shows this character in a family gathering.
"So, Anne, what have you done this week?" her mother asked.
"Just the usual" Anne-Laure replied.
"Did you try the recipe I gave you?"
"No, but Louise did". Louise was Anne-Laure's flatmate; her mother's eyes suddenly woke up.
"Oh, wonderful! How did she managed the thing - with the stuffing - did she...?"
But Anne-Laure interrupted her mother.
"I don't know. She did something else. She only got inspired from the recipe. You know I hate mushrooms... She did something else."
"Oh really? What did she replace the mushrooms with?"
"I don't know. I didn't look."
Her mother made her famous irritated look and accompanied it with a disapproving silence. Everyone seemed hung to the words that were not spoken. Until Anne-Laure said:
"Look. I don't like cooking, ok? There is no big deal. It's not like if I could love everything. Dad doesn't like gardening. You don't like ironing."
"As if you liked ironing" Arthur said, but nobody seemed to notice. Her mother continued.
"And you, Arthur, have you cleaned your room?"
He replied, "no. Have you cleaned yours?"
Anne-Laure and Arthur exchanged a mischievious look and their mother laughed.
Proper parents would not laugh, their father thought. In fact, proper parents would scold them. But he didn't speak a word. Instead, he pretented to be absorbed by his plate: he still couldn't identify what he was eating. He didn't mind her wife to be a cordon-bleu, but did she have to make things so complicated? It took her hours to get this meal together, and he was hungry. He would have been satisfied with a sandwich.
But it didn't matter what he thought, because in the meantime his children had started a conversation about a new TV show. His wife attempted to follow, when really she didn't know a thing about it.
Yet on this latter point, he was wrong. In fact, his wife wasn't even listening to what her children were saying. She was thinking about the recipe her daughter didn't use. What was it with Anne-Laure that made her hate cooking? And what was it with herself that made her feel more connected to her daughter's flatmate than to her daughter herself?
On the other side of the table, Anne-Laure was still talking to Arthur with animation, except that the conversation had switched from a new TV show to TV shows they had discussed before. She was not really thinking about the TV shows either. She was rather thinking about the circumstances that made her watch them. She hated being alone in her flat, she truly hated it. So she watched the television. It made the time run faster. Was it how she would end up? Alone, and watching the television to distract her from the emptiness?
Perhaps she would, but Arthur didn't seem to think so.
In fact, at that precise moment, he was not thinking at all.
"So, Anne, what have you done this week?" her mother asked.
"Just the usual" Anne-Laure replied.
"Did you try the recipe I gave you?"
"No, but Louise did". Louise was Anne-Laure's flatmate; her mother's eyes suddenly woke up.
"Oh, wonderful! How did she managed the thing - with the stuffing - did she...?"
But Anne-Laure interrupted her mother.
"I don't know. She did something else. She only got inspired from the recipe. You know I hate mushrooms... She did something else."
"Oh really? What did she replace the mushrooms with?"
"I don't know. I didn't look."
Her mother made her famous irritated look and accompanied it with a disapproving silence. Everyone seemed hung to the words that were not spoken. Until Anne-Laure said:
"Look. I don't like cooking, ok? There is no big deal. It's not like if I could love everything. Dad doesn't like gardening. You don't like ironing."
"As if you liked ironing" Arthur said, but nobody seemed to notice. Her mother continued.
"And you, Arthur, have you cleaned your room?"
He replied, "no. Have you cleaned yours?"
Anne-Laure and Arthur exchanged a mischievious look and their mother laughed.
Proper parents would not laugh, their father thought. In fact, proper parents would scold them. But he didn't speak a word. Instead, he pretented to be absorbed by his plate: he still couldn't identify what he was eating. He didn't mind her wife to be a cordon-bleu, but did she have to make things so complicated? It took her hours to get this meal together, and he was hungry. He would have been satisfied with a sandwich.
But it didn't matter what he thought, because in the meantime his children had started a conversation about a new TV show. His wife attempted to follow, when really she didn't know a thing about it.
Yet on this latter point, he was wrong. In fact, his wife wasn't even listening to what her children were saying. She was thinking about the recipe her daughter didn't use. What was it with Anne-Laure that made her hate cooking? And what was it with herself that made her feel more connected to her daughter's flatmate than to her daughter herself?
On the other side of the table, Anne-Laure was still talking to Arthur with animation, except that the conversation had switched from a new TV show to TV shows they had discussed before. She was not really thinking about the TV shows either. She was rather thinking about the circumstances that made her watch them. She hated being alone in her flat, she truly hated it. So she watched the television. It made the time run faster. Was it how she would end up? Alone, and watching the television to distract her from the emptiness?
Perhaps she would, but Arthur didn't seem to think so.
In fact, at that precise moment, he was not thinking at all.
