Complain

Once upon a time, my dream was to marry the pianist, the one who performed with our high school orchestra at the Christmas concert. In eleventh grade, she came to Waterloo from Paris — France, not Ontario. She was the live-in friend of the engineer, at least the dynast’s daughter who grew up to be the engineer. They came to school by car, sat together in their classes, and slept in one bed, as only blood sisters and rich girls did. Around the clock, they spoke in fast French that I could not understand. I never was a part of their world, even after our summer trip to Montreal. I got along with the pianist, and quarreled with the engineer. Life is strange: the pianist should have stayed a stranger, but became my fiancée with the engineer’s blessing.