So schnell kann es passieren
- 4 years ago
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Of Wallonia free porn video
Don't let anyone ever tell you that moving to a foreign country is easy.
That person is either a liar or moved to Canada. I don't even know why I
did it. I quit a better paying job to move to Belgium, a country that
speaks three languages that I can't, for the unimpugnable reason that a
voice called to me one morning. Not a mysterious voice or anything, I
just overheard someone at Starbucks talking about Belgium and thought,
"hey, why not throw away my life?"
So here I was. In a tiny studio apartment in the Walloon city of
Charleroi, having left my nice big loft and my nice big life in Chicago.
One thing I didn't leave there was my forgetfulness. The first time it
happened, I thought it was cute. I started leaving the little corner
market down the street from my building and the girl at the register
stopped me.
"Monsieur, votre portefeuille!" she called out to me.
I turned around and made a face that, to my best efforts, conveyed the
fact that I had no idea what she had just said. Then she pointed to a
black rectangle next to the stack of plastic bags and struggled through a
very heavy accent to get out her next two words: "Your puhrse."
I smiled my best 'thank-you' and corrected her as I picked it up.
"Wallet. It's a wallet."
She smiled back. "Wally, you forghet the puhrse."
I could tell she'd meant well, so I suppressed the tremor of an urge to
correct her again and left with another smile and a "merci."
She was at the checkout again for the next week's shopping, and she'd
remembered me: "How ahre you, Wally?"
I almost tried to correct her, but the effort it took to bridge the
language barrier trumped my vague annoyance. I smiled and mumbled "bon"
or something. She smiled at me the whole time, and I swear if we were in
Chicago and I felt at all comfortable opening my mouth, it would have
been a perfect time to ask for a phone number, but I didn't feel at all
comfortable, so it wasn't. I made sure not to forget my wallet, though.
It was the third week that things started getting weird. Someone else
was at checkout, and that part went smoothly, but when I was halfway back
to my building I passed by a storefront that had some wallets in their
window, and I subconsciously patted my back pocket. I had forgotten a
particular black rectangle. Again.
I ran back and sputtered some broken French at the girl who'd rung up my
groceries, and then heard a familiar voice behind me. "Wally! You
forghet the puhrse!"
I turned around to see my checkout girl holding a rather larger black
rectangle than I was expecting. Maybe she'd put my wallet behind the
customer service counter or something, I thought, but then she skipped up
to me, all smiles, and draped a thin leather strap over my shoulder so
that the black rectangle could rest at my hip. I started to protest that
it wasn't mine, but she pushed me out of the store, still all smiles,
calling me a "jokehr" every time I tried to say that she gave me someone
else's bag.
Once on the sidewalk I checked its contents. My ID was in there, my
credit cards, the exact same amount of cash as I'd had before, but also
my phone and my keys. I patted my pockets: empty. But how? There was
no way I'd taken them out at the store.
When I passed by that place with the wallets, I went in and bought one.
When I got home, I transferred all of my things over.
Week four saw the first girl at the checkout again, but I was in a better
mood, so when she said "I like your new puhrse," as I removed the week-
old wallet, I just smiled and let a conversation happen.
"Wallet." I held it up and shook it to show what I was referring to.
"Violette?" she asked, and then touched four fingers to just below her
collarbone. "Je m'appelle Marine. How ahre you today?"
Inertia pulled me forward in the conversation. "Je suis bien."
"Bien?" She gave a little giggle that made me feel like I'd said
something wrong.
"Oui. Bien."
She finished ringing me up and I got to the door before I realized that
I'd forgotten my wallet again. Before I could turn around I heard Marine
calling to me "Don forghet the puhrse!" She was already holding out a
large brown thing with gold patterns on it and as I came closer she
shoved it into my arms. I blushed furiously, but I took the purse and
left. Once again I discovered that all of my things were inside of it,
including keys and phone, but this time there were other things that I
didn't recognize: some pill bottles, a packet of tissues, and some
makeup.
Marine was already ringing up the next customer, and I didn't want to
bother her. I'd give her back her makeup the next week. I bought
another wallet on the way home.
On week four, I brought the makeup with me in my pocket. It was just a
compact, a tube of lipstick, and a pencil of some sort, so it fit in one
pocket while my phone and keys went in the other. But Marine wasn't at
the checkout. I figured it was a missed opportunity, but as I was
leaving she pounced on me.
"Violette! I am finish!"
I turned around. Her happiness was oddly contagious. "Termin??"
"Oui. I finish wohrk. Let's go to caf?."
And that was that. I don't know if my standards are universal, but I
definitely considered what followed to be a date. Marine guided me to a
nice little restaurant, and we sat in a nice little corner, and we talked
for a nice little evening. At one point I remembered the makeup in my
pocket and took it out to give to her. She started laughing and tried to
put it on me. I resisted at first, but she was very insistent, and very
cute, and nobody was line of sight from us anyway, so eventually I sat
still as she made up my face. The pencil, I discovered then, was
eyeliner.
I insisted on paying, and then we went our separate ways. It wasn't
until I got to my door that I realized that I didn't have my keys. Or my
phone. Or my wallet. I turned around and dropped myself onto the front
steps of the building. How could I lose my keys and my phone?
"Violette!" Marine appeared almost out of nowhere. "Your puhrse!"
She dropped a large canvas bag, green with flowers on it, onto my lap.
It was heavier than I was expecting it to be. "Comment?"
She cut me off. "Your dress in your puhrse." She'd found my address in,
well, I guess I had to call it my purse.
I invited her up, and she looked eager. When I opened the newest purse
to search for my keys, I discovered why this one was so heavy: there was
some large piece of fabric inside. I opened my door and let Marine in,
and then pulled the fabric out to see what it was: a bright teal dress
with yellow leaf designs on it.
"Est vous?"
Marine smiled at me. "It is your dress from your puhrse." Then she
started taking my shirt off. I did not complain, until she started
trying to put the dress on in its place.
We played the same dance as we had in the restaurant with the makeup, and
eventually I again backed down. She put me in front of the full-length
mirror hung on my front door, and I suddenly remembered that I was still
wearing that makeup. Between it and the dress, I almost looked, well,
pretty. That thought gave me a weird feeling. But I had to admit, I'd
seen some girls going around with knee-length dresses over blue jeans,
and what I was wearing fit that sort of modern-chic look.
Marine put an arm on my back and leaned her head on my shoulder. "My
Violette."
She slept at my place that night, but we didn't sleep together.
When I woke up, she was already in the shower. Sunday morning, and
neither of us had work. I hadn't had a chance to sort through the
contents of this newest purse before, so I grabbed it off the floor and
dumped it out onto my bed. More makeup than before, a thing of mints, a
few condoms, and my keys and phone and cash and cards.
My ID had the name "Violette Desrosiers." That didn't seem right. I
looked at the picture. Was that my face? I looked up at the mirror on
my door and realized that I never did wash off my makeup last night.
Half of my face in the mirror was smudged, and on the ID the whole face
was carefully made-up, but that was the only difference. Maybe I was
still groggy from waking up, but it didn't feel like "Violette
Desrosiers" should be my name. But the only other name I could think of
was Wally, and I knew that was just from Marine mis-hearing me.
She stepped out of the shower just then, towel wrapped around her chest,
and walked over to my wardrobe. "I can borrhow?"
She was a good six inches shorter than me, but I figured she was doing
the "girlfriend in his T-shirt" thing, so I nodded, "Oui," before heading
towards the shower myself.
"Where ahre the panties?"
I smiled and turned back to look at her. I was starting to get used to
her almost-English. She had already draped one of my polo shirts over
herself, and it hung off one shoulder and came down almost to her knees.
I asked in my almost-French if she wanted to use my underwear. She
nodded. This was a tad kinkier than I was expecting, but I shrugged and
showed her my underwear drawer, then got into the shower.
When I got out, I made sure to dry my hair and face thoroughly before I
wrapped the towel around myself. Marine was waiting, sitting on my bed
with one knee crossed over the other, foot dangling in the air. The
over-the-shoulder dress that she'd borrowed fit her perfectly. I was
surprised because I could have sworn that I was a few dress sizes bigger
than her.
She immediately stood up and insisted on dressing me. "I will make my
Violette vehry pretty," she said as she pulled a bra and panty set from
my drawers. I guess she'd had time to prepare an outfit for me while I
was in the shower.
When she pushed the garments into my hands, I couldn't help but notice
that we really were the same size. Same height, same dimensions all
over. We were practically twins. Obviously my clothes fit her. Why did
I think I'd been so much bigger?
I put on the underwear and she handed me another dress. Similar style to
the one she had on, but it went over the other shoulder. Why didn't it
look familiar? It was obviously from my closet, wasn't it? I shook my
head and took the dress from her. It fell to just above my knees.
She wanted to do my makeup too, but that I wouldn't allow. I could do my
own face, thank you very much. I could see Marine looking over my
shoulder in the mirror as I applied foundation. Why did she look so
excited?
"We ahre go to cafe now?" She was teasing me. She knew her English was
much better than mine, but I understood 'cafe,' so I rolled my eyes and
nodded, and we were out the door.
Marine pulled me into the bookstore right next to our normal cafe,
chattering a mile a minute. She kept talking about this book that I just
needed to read as she guided me to the children's shelf and ran her
finger along the spines. Finally she pulled one out and handed it to me.
"La Petite Sorci?re de Wallonie." The little witch of Wallonia.
"Happy bert day," she said to me. I understood that English phrase too,
fortunately. But it wasn't my birthday. I looked up at her to tell her
so, but when I looked at her face I saw a deep, happy light behind her
eyes, and I figured I would just go along. Marine was my best friend,
and I would always be her Violette.
Gigi
- 07.06.2022
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