Page 57 of Where the Snakes Sleep

He notices when I hesitate before answering him.

He notices when I’m afraid.

He notices when I’m turned on.

I’m pretty sure if one of my organs changed position, he’d tilt his head and ask whether my spleen had always sat two centimeters to the left.

We both knew I was lying about a nonexistent brother to escape, but he didn’t question it. He let me go.

I grab clean clothes from the chair and head for the bathroom.

The shower pressure is terrible.

I have complained about it almost every morning since arriving, but today the weak spray is particularly offensive because Camille’s shower has ruined me for all others.

Another thing to hate him for.

I scrub quickly, avoiding looking too closely at myself in the mirror afterward.

I throw on shorts, a loose tank, slather my skin in sunscreen, and twist my hair up into a messy bun because it’s probably already as hot as Satan’s ballsack outside.

I am completely fine.

I just need to stay away from Camille for a couple of days. Not because I suddenly have feelings, but because boundaries are healthy.

Distance is healthy.

And if I go back over there today, there is a nonzero chance that I will end up curled against him afterward like some sort of needy house pet.

I decide to walk into town to avoid Camille at least for the morning. The walk takes forever, as usual. Normally, by the time I reach the first cluster of buildings, I’m sweaty, irritated, and considering whether stubborn independence is actually worth heatstroke.

Today, I welcome it.

Physical suffering gives my brain something uncomplicated to concentrate on.

The village is busier than usual, probably because it’s Saturday and apparently rural French people also believe weekends are for buying bread and standing in inconvenient groups across narrow sidewalks.

I stop first at the little market and pick up a few tomatoes, some cheese, a loaf of fresh bread, coffee, and laundry detergent.

By the time I leave, both canvas bags are heavy enough that the walk home is going to suck.

Good. More suffering. Maybe I’ll develop heat exhaustion before developing an attachment style.

I cross the square toward the hardware store. The woman behind the counter recognizes me now and has graciously stopped pretending she cannot speak a lick of English, though I remain convinced she understands significantly more than she admits.

“Bonjour,” I say.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Smith.”

I show her a picture of a warped window latch that I’m trying to fix. She makes a noise that I suspect translates universally to “that is fucked.”

We spend the next ten minutes communicating through a combination of English, French, hand gestures, and her occasionally taking my phone from me to correct whatever the translation app has done to the sentence.

Eventually, she disappears into the back to search for what she’s concluded I need, so I wander the small store as I wait for her to return.

There are approximately 6,000 kinds of screws.

Why?