Bye Bye Blondie Read Online Free PDF

skull. An unusual echo. Your skull is a solid piece of work, in her experience. It can be fractured, yes, but it’s fucking solid. She’d realized gradually that he was going to freak out. First it was the mornings, when he found her in that state, then the evenings when he got home. Then he started getting scared to put his arms around her, because he never knew what her reaction would be. He’d panic when she phoned him. He’d see her number come up on his phone and he wouldn’t know what shape she’d be in.
    And the worst of it was, she couldn’t reproach him with anything. No cracks in his wall where she could hang on and attack him. Of course he didn’t want to have a child with her. Who’d want to, with a madwoman?
    She attacks her belly with her fingernails, as she’s now in the habit of doing. So much so that it’s covered with blue semicircular bruises and nail marks digging into the flesh. Or long red welts that take months to disappear where she’s drawn blood. Stupid belly—prominent and empty.
    She’s at the age when women who haven’t had children realize that they won’t ever now. To be born a woman, the worst fate in practically every society. Just one trump card: the ability to give birth. And in her case, she’s missed the boat. As with everything else. She’s really missed out on everything, from start to finish.
    Gloria sighs, then realizes that she’s suddenly been seized with a burst of enthusiasm. Part of her is rubbing her hands with glee and rolling up her sleeves: Right, who’s next? Through suffering, by a mysterious kind of emotional alchemy, the heart generates its own burstsof sunshine. Alas, they don’t last long.
    â€œWould you like some herbal tea?”
    If Gloria wasn’t sleeping here, she’d have snapped back: “That stuff? Stupid, money-saving, middle-class fad.”
    Instead, she asked, “No beer left?”
    Terrible feeling as night falls, a cold monster is prowling around her, wanting to grab hold of her and suck out what remains of her reason. Or self-control.
    Véronique has pulled a pile of children’s exercise books out of her big black satchel. She puts them on her desk and starts marking them. Gloria is interested in what she’s doing.
    â€œYou give them grades? Even in nursery classes?”
    â€œYes, I draw a little red man with his mouth down when something’s wrong, and a green one with a smile when it’s right. If it’s just peculiar, I draw an orange man with a funny nose.”
    â€œPoor little kids,” Gloria says with sympathy, “even when they’re five years old, they get to feel they’re failures.”
    â€œWe have to assess them, it’s compulsory. I don’t know what to say really . . . it’s not the worst thing we have to deal with just now.”
    â€œYeah right, that’s why you’re on strike all the time.”
    â€œI’ll let you take my place for a year, and you’d soon see whether we’re on strike all the time. Three weeks and you’d be on your knees, then you’d know what I’m talking about.”
    The telephone rings. Véronique freezes, glances at the time, and picks up, looking anxious. It’s the sort of time when you get bad news. Gloria watches the expression on her face, praying that it’s not some serious crisis. She wants to be able to cry herself to sleep on her pillow, not to have to comfort the friend who’s putting her up. But Véro stands stock-still, opens her eyes so wide she looks like she’s had a face-lift, gasps, replies, “Yes yes yes,” and holds out the phone, pointing to it and whispering excitedly, “It’s him !” Gloria’s heart is jumping under her ribs, she imagines it’s Lucas.
    â€œSo, we meet for the first time in twenty years, and the first thing you do is stand me up!”
    In other