Primrose
Sylvie looks up, perplexed.
“Curtains.” I give my hair a hard middle part before realizing my observation is lost on an audience who has been on the earth for less time than Zoe’s sourdough starter. “Never mind.”
“Did you just sing me a song?” I assume we’re standing at a respectful distance from the paddock fence for a reason as I watch the llama’s long eyelashes rest at a coquettish angle. I’m not sure if she’s contemplating the universe or us.
“Pardon?”
“La-la-la-la-labamba!” I belt out with a little shimmy.
“Non, silly!” she answers with a giggle. “Lola la llama,” she enunciates with exaggeration, pointing at the camelid currently chewing cud like an attitude-y teenager with a mouthful of chewing gum. “Lola is not a boy. She’s also not ninety, I don’t think. Ninety years is many.”
“Yeah. Almost as old as your dad.”
This cracks the kid up. “He is not ninety years!”
“No? How old is he, then?” Fishing Primrose, really?
It was so weird how nice he was trying to be at dinner last night.
Trying but finding it difficult, judging by the tension in his jaw and the occasional frown I caught.
I suppose I should just be happy he didn’t let me choke on that olive despite hearing (I’m 99% positive) my less-than-complimentary words.
But he can’t be sure I was talking about him. Well, he can surmise, but he can’t prove it. I just hope to heaven that’s all he heard. I wouldn’t like to inflate his ego any more than it already is.
“Well, my papa does not make noises like Monsieur Maria when he gets out of his chair.”
I will not interrogate a six-year-old.
“Does his age start with a three or a four?” I’m just making conversation. I’m only mildly curious. But maybe my nose is growing as Sylvie frowns my way. “A five?” I suggest next. Surely not, unless he’s a vampire.
“He is…” Sylvie’s expression scrunches like I’d just tasked her with a mathematics calculation. “Thirty-nine.” She gives a decisive nod of her head. “I remember now because Felix said thirty-nine is how old papa says he is every birthday.”
So he’s a fibber. And a little vain. Or really a vampire. I suppose if I really want to know, I’ll need to break my personal rule and google it.
I stroke my hand over Sylvie’s white-blond head, her hair so silky and shiny in the summer sun. “Better put your hat back on, poppet.”
She plonks the straw hat haphazardly on her head, and I pull it straight with a tiny smile. She really is a little sweetheart.
I can see how Emmy is so fond of her, though I’m sure, had she been in my place at dinner last night, she would’ve been less fond of her during the whole vegan/virgin debacle. I mean, it was fun to begin with, watching her father grapple with the question: “What is a virgin?”
Let’s see you get out of this, I’d thought, mentally preparing a bowl of popcorn to accompany my viewing pleasure.
“I’m not sure this is dinner table appropriate conversation,” he’d said, discovering a deeply intense interest in the contents of his wineglass.
“I have heard the word before, Papa.” Sylvie pursed her lips, unimpressed.
“When?” he demanded. “When did you hear that word?”
“I heard Monsieur Maria say it. He said he needed extra virgins.”
I brought my napkin to my mouth and turned a snicker into a cough. I felt sorry for him. Almost. “Was he in the kitchen, by any chance?”
She turned her attention my way. “How did you know that?”
“I suspect he was talking about olive oil,” I said, thinking how nice it was of me to put her father out of his strangled-faced misery.
“Olive oil is a virgin? But that doesn’t make sense because Solange at school said that the mother of Jesus was also a virgin, and the mother of Jesus cannot be a bottle of oil,” she concluded, holding out her hands like a game show host.
M. LDH muttered something that sounded suspiciously curse-like.
“I don’t think the mother of Jesus would like to hear you say that word, Papa.”
He closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring. “The word virgin can be used in many contexts, Sylvie.”
“Oil and people and what else?” she asked, barely allowing him to come up for breath.
“In the context of people,” he’d said, trying again, “a virgin is someone who isn’t… well, who isn’t trying to have a baby.”
“So the Virgin Mother wasn’t trying to have a baby,” baby detective Poirot asked, her expression one of suspicion.
“That’s correct.” His answer sounded strong. His expression not so much.
On a technicality, I mentally added as I reached for my water glass.
“So you are a virgin, Papa.”
I almost choked on my water.
“I…” His eyes darted my way. “Not exactly.”
Oh my God. From the mouths of babes… comes the funniest shit.
“But you aren’t trying to have any more children. You already say we are enough.” She turned to me. “And also you, Primrose.”
“Me? What did I—”
“You too must be a virgin.”
“Oh. Well.” Technically, no. Potentially revirginized by my life? Probably.
“I have an idea!” she announced, practically bouncing in her seat. “You could have a baby together. I would get a sister I always wanted, and then you two would no longer be virgins!”
She looked to be delighted with her own conclusion.
The adults at the table, not so much. Yes, Sylvie is lovely. Sometimes.
Felix, meanwhile, is a pain in the rear end.
But I’m pretty sure that’s written in the big bro rule book.
The thing with big brothers is, they’re ready to throw down for you at a moment’s notice.
But equally, they’re the first to throw you down at their leisure.
At least I can’t imagine Felix farting on Sylvie’s head.
“What’s the other llama called?” I ask as a ginger colored specimen appears from the shed at the other side of the paddock.
“That is Paco. He loves Lola.”
Head high, ears pricked, the would-be Romeo ambles across the grass towards Lola.
“But she does not love him.” The little girl gives a sad shake of her head.
“I think I can see that,” I say as Lola glares his way, sort of, Fuck, not you again.
Undeterred, Paco closes the distance, stretching his neck hopefully in her direction. But it looks like Lola’s not giving the (llama) man the man the benefit of the doubt. More like she’s doubting the benefit of the (llama) man. I hear you, (llama) sister.
Lola sighs. It’s a strangely expressive sound. But before Paco can take another step, she draws back her head and let’s fly. A globule of spit lands squarely between his eyes.
“Oh my goodness!” I exclaim.
Paco freezes, his expression one of profound shock as a strand of greenish llama resentment slowly slides down his nose.
Lola resumes chewing like the bass bitch he is. Apparently, the conversation is over.
“Wow, llama drama.”
Next to me, Sylvie begins to laugh so hard that she doubles over. I find myself smiling, the sight and sound of a child in full, uninhibited belly laugh as fun for me as a spitting llama is to her. But, gosh, why is children’s laughter so infectious?
“Primrose, do you see his face?” Sylvie gasps, laughing so hard she can barely point.
“I do. Or maybe that should be I goo.”
“This is the funnest thing I have seen,” she exclaims. “In all of my days, ever, and I’ve had a lot of days.”
“Funniest,” I gently correct.
“Why do you think she spits at him?”
“Is he her brother?”
She smiles, like she gets the joke, but then she begins to wave frantically. “Alejandro! Look, it’s Alejandro!”
At the other side of the paddock stands a man. Tall, tan, and fair hair, boots, and green overalls dusted in, well, dust. Her waves and then begins to amble in our direction.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Sylvie,” he says with a small smile her way. An American?
“Bonjour, Monsieur Alejandro,” Sylvie response. “?a va?”
“Très bein,” he answers in a terrible French accent. He looks to be in his early thirties, sun-bronzed, with a nice smile. As he turns my way, he offers me his hand. “I’m Al.”
His hands are broad and warm, with dirty fingernails. Ew.
“Hello.” My hand meets his despite the fingernails. “Primrose,” I add.
“Sorry about the dirt.” He curls his fingers inward as he pulls a face. “I’ve been taking samples this morning.”
“Of dirt?” I ask doubtfully.
“Alejandro grows Papa’s grapes.”
“That I do,” he says, beaming down at her.
“The Frenchman allows an American to fondle his grapes?” The words are out before I realize how they sound. Oh my days.
“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite that way.” He rubs his hand across his mouth. “But we grow a decent grape in California. But where are my manners,” he says, turning to the llama and sketching a playful. “Bonjour, Lola.”
“She can’t talk,” Sylvie scoffs.
“No, but she does holds grudges.”
“Yes, we just saw,” I say.
“Lola spitted at Paco.”
“Spat,” I correctly softly.
“A love spat.” He nods sagely.
“No, Alejandro, it was green and slimy,” Sylvie protests.
“Poor Paco. Rejected again.”
“It definitely wasn’t a polite no,” I agree.
“Llamas are complicated creatures.”
“More like gross.” My nose wrinkles and he smiles, which is sort of nice. Straight teeth and twinkly eyes.
“But if you think about it, humans aren’t much better.”
“Complicated or gross?” Probably both, I decide, thinking back to a very rough shift I’d experienced as a student doctor where a man shuffled into Emergency with a Barbie doll stuck up his bum.
“Complicated,” he says with a smile. “We can spend weeks, maybe months, dancing around the object of our longing, pretending we’re not interested or playing hard to get.” His smile widens. “At least llamas skip straight to the mess.”
A burst of laughter springs from my chest, and Sylvie laughs along with me, not wanting to be left out.
“Llamas are funny,” she says, reaching for my hand. “And a little bit stinky.”
“Very true. But he’ll be back.” Al nods in the direction of Paco, who I swear, seems to be plotting his next move.
“What happens then?” I find myself asking.
“She’ll probably spit on him again.” His eyes dance with humor as they hold mine. “And again and again as a sign of his devotion.”
“Sounds more like a sign of his stupidity.”
“Possibly. A pretty face can do terrible things to a man’s judgement.” His voice sounds a touch lower. Is he flirting with me?
For a beat, neither of us say anything, though I can feel Sylvie’s gaze darting between us as though trying to read the situation.
“You do remember she spat in his face?” I remind him.
“And all he can remember is her eyes.”
Something not at all unpleasant blooms inside me. “I see no romance here.”
“Damn.” He pushes his hand through his hair. “I was hoping you’d focus on his devotion, not his inability to take a hint.” His attention flicks Paco’s way who is already prancing determinedly back toward Lola. “Would it help if I told you I’m brighter than him?”
“That’s a pretty low bar.” My retort hits the air with a laugh.
“How about you let me buy you a drink. See if I can clear it.” He gives an unrepentant grin. “Either way, I promise I’m clever enough to stop before the spit.”