“Will Barbara bring a fiancé with her?” the fish seller asks me. We are in Jean-Pierre and Babette’s store and I am buying some things for lunch. Jean-Pierre is upstairs nursing an arm after an operation. Babette sits behind the cash register. The fish seller, who is as wide as she is tall, has her store next door. She only opens when she can buy the best fish off the boats.
They look at me.
“Why?” I ask.
Another person thinks that may be the reason Barbara is returning later than usual from her winter trip to Boston.
“C’est la meme chance que le neige en l’enfer,” I say. They laugh. Obviously snowball in hell doesn’t translate like many sayings such as like father like son, tel père, tel fils.
I explain, my friend is working a couple of weeks extra to make up for lost time when she had a bad back.
They make the pft sound, that only the French can do right. “Pas romantique,” the fish seller says. Babette nods. Part of me feels badly that they can’t continue to imagine my friend having a romance.
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