
#shortstory
A wet rag over the publishing buffet and then with the French stroke through the swab, then Chantal sits her work day. Actually, she doesn't feel like going home at all. Since the neighbor left, it doesn't feel like home. They had broken out the walls between the houses and thus created their heavenly palace, full of cosiness, full of warmth, full of life.
Now it's just a hollow and empty house. Nothing beats anymore, without him is without heart, without a soul. She doesn't even put on the Christmas tree anymore, reminds her way too much of turbulent times. Times from the past, when she ever turned off the lights, because it was much easier to fantasize on it at dusk. And they've had a lot of fantasies, be samples, in the twilight dark. In December, she always called him her private Christmas tree, with his flesh-colored peak. It's still getting her warm. She sighs, celebrating their last Christmas together, has gone wrong. Chantal was too fanatical with decorating the tree, lights still had to go in, then the candle wax walked over the balls and the neighbor fleeed.
“Good morning, the soup is already hot? Just put me a bowl, I can use it best in this harsh December month.'
Chantal is shocked by her musings and knocks the coffee bus off the counter. The entire stock is scattered across the floor. In mind, she throws him a few firm curses in front of his feet, but her smile doesn't betray this.
“I'm just the coffee lady, not the snertmadam.'Extremely polite, the words come out of her mouth. Obviously averse to sarcasm, they would once call her antisocial, Chantal is thrifty on her good name, that reputation should not be thrown too grabbed.
Where has she seen the flierefluiter before? Find out by a few trick questions.
“Aren't you afraid he's going off with the pennies?'
“Who? And with what money?'
“Your monkey. with the centenbakkie.'
Man pulls up his eyebrows asking and shrugging.
“I don't know what you think you're talking about, but you haven't changed a splash yet, always come out of the corner differently.'
So it's not the barrel organ man, she can already delete it from her list. But when he knows her, she should definitely know him too. His voice also has something recognizable, Chantal digs into her memory. She feels a slight itch in her stomach, must be hungry.
“Anyway, I don't have time to do klesseberries, we're going to close like this, so wobbing.'
“But old sewing box, don't you recognize me?'
There was only one who always dared to call her that, but that simply couldn't be true. Chantal squeezes her eyes into slits, to mimic the dim image she knew him about.
'NEIGHBOR! No, it's not true! Is it really? I thought you migrated to faraway America for good.!'
'In this month, I always feel somewhat incomplete, I have no idea of what it is, a strange urge to be decorated, perhaps.'
He grabs Chantal, looks her deep in her eyes.
“Would you like to rig my Christmas tree, for old sakes?'
“In Dallas or Dynasty?Chantal hees asks.
“In Florida, and I'm offering you a job as a resident housekeeper right away, I know how much you attach to your independence.'
'Only if I can also trim the tree in my own way.'
'Deal.The agreement is sealed with a kiss.
“When do we leave?She always wants to know where she stands.
'Ho ho ho, first put your qualities to the test, check if you haven't lost it yet.'
Chantal shines and asks how.
“Start sucking.'
“Yes, dag, here? Everyone can see, the windows are too wide, I really don't hear.'
“Would you leave it like that?The neighbor frowns. “A housekeeper who doesn't even clean up the mess and leaves the floor littered with coffee, I can't assume, tssssk.'
'Oooh, you mean vacuuming, hahaha, duh, you really need to learn to be a little clearer.'
Immediately Chantal gets to work and in a short time everything will be spike-and-span again and they can leave. On the way to a hot Christmas in Florida.
On the plane, Chantal does not let a minute be lost, she unpacks the tree in advance, starts rigging and reviving old times.
Image of grafmex via Pixabay
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