The gynecologist appointment did it. Through my spread legs, I watched my fiancé translating from English to French my medical questions about my most intimate bodily functions, and I knew I couldn't stay here any longer.

I made my New Year's resolution. As soon as the holidays were over, I'd get on a plane.

I have tonight. Silent, I sit in a room filled with costumed strangers, French chatter, music and cigarette smoke. I sip wine and try to figure out what I'll say to my fiancé in the morning before packing my bags. Jean Luc's cowboy hat has slipped to one side, almost hiding one of his reddened eyes. Apparently, the wine has had the same effect on him as it has had on me, only his high looks as euphoric as mine is melancholy.

It's been two months and I've yet to make any friends of my own. Sylvia, another one of his friends, has made a great deal of effort tonight to entertain me, although I don't know why. She is dressed as a Victorian aristocrat. "It depends on the context," she toasts me in heavily accented English. I smile and we nod. Earlier, she explained in less grammatically correct phrases that this sentence was about the only one she remembered from a summer course she'd taken ten years ago.

My French lessons have done nothing but cause me further humiliation. I learned how to translate "I'm full," only to discover that this meant I was an expecting cow. Maybe that's what sparked Jean Luc's invitation to visit the gynecologist.

Jean Luc yanks me onto the dance floor. We spin and sway with a frog, a prisoner, a devil, a flapper, and an Arab prince. I bury my face inside his collar and breathe in the comforting scent that I've become too accustomed to waking up beside. I rub my cheek on his collar to wipe away a tear. At least the lyrics are in English. If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend I'm home.

The lights flicker and people start counting, "trois, deux, un,...Bonne Année!"

We kiss, and I lose sight of my cowboy. The dance floor floods with embracing creatures. Each one kisses my cheeks and rambles what I assume are good wishes to me. Corks pop, and I hurry to my table to enjoy the best part about living in this country.

My eyelashes keep catching on my mask, but I don't feel like unveiling my face. The Devil sits down beside me, and refills both our glasses. "How's life?" he asks me in French. Sentences form in my mind, but I fear my accent will interfere with the words. I spat them out anyway, and wait for the laughter to follow. Instead, Sylvia toasts us with another, "it depends on the context!"

"Oui," I respond, adjusting my mask.

I'll be too hung-over in the morning to get on a plane, but New Year's resolutions never last very long anyway.

Although this piece is fictional, Rebecca Marshall-Courtois is an immigrant herself. She fell in love with her French boss twelve years ago, and left Westchester County, New York to live with him in France. Rebecca is a mother of three daughters and works full time as an English teacher at the Université de Poitiers, and part-time as a freelance translator. She's also currently completing her doctorate in literature. Her fiction has been published in Literary Potpourri, E2K, Love Words, The Sidewalks End, and Moondance. You can reach her at: Rebecca.courtois@wanadoo.fr

Copyright 2002 by Rebecca Marshall-Courtois

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