The Brutal Language of Love by Alicia Erian Page B

Louise?” Hazel asked him. He wore no shoes and was opening and closing kitchen cupboards in search of something.
    â€œIn the shack, man,” he said. Then he added, “Shit, Brigitte, where’s my aloe vera?”
    Brigitte got up from the table and helped him look. “What do you need aloe vera for?” Hazel said. “Is Mary Louise okay?”
    Raoul laughed. “Mary Louise is fine. She cut me with her nails, man. You want to see my back?”
    â€œNo thanks,” Hazel said.
    â€œHere,” Brigitte said, handing Raoul the tube of salve. “It was in the junk drawer.”
    Raoul nodded. “Thanks, man,” he said. Then he kissed her on both cheeks, as he had done every morning of their life together.
    Hazel looked away and, seeing this, Raoul shrugged. “Hey, man,” he said to her. “I’m French.”
    â€œMan?” Hazel said.
    â€œOkay,” Raoul said, “I’m French, ’A-zel. This is how we say ’ello, good morning, whatever.”
    â€œKiss Hazel,” Brigitte said.
    â€œI think she doesn’t want me to,” Raoul protested, shoving his hands in his pockets.
    â€œAs long as Mary Louise is all right, it would be okay,” Hazel said.
    Raoul was momentarily still, then took his hands out of his pockets and leaned down to kiss Hazel’s cheeks. As he did, his shirt pulled up a bit at the back, and Brigitte could see some of the red welts Mary Louise’s nails had left on his skin. Not scratches or scrapes, but bitter little half-moons outlined in dried blood. Imprints. At first Brigitte was appalled at Mary Louise, then fleetingly jealous of her, then, oddly, gratified. She must have been as strong as she had claimed, Brigitte decided at last. Raoul should have believed her.

Lass
    It was a cold march night and they sat across the bar from each other, smiling over the fact that they both kept ordering Guinness. Silently they competed, in an attempt to drink each other under a table they didn’t share. “You won,” he told her later, on his way back from the toilet. He said his name was Carl and apologized immediately for being so fat. She told him it wasn’t that bad, and really it wasn’t. He expressed surprise that an American should have such a taste for the brown stuff, and Shayna said why shouldn’t she, it tasted good.
    Carl described himself as being no different from any other Irishman in London, working an office job he never would have found in Dublin and wishing he could go home, particularly when the natives got restless and it was Paddy this and Paddy that on the train platforms, at the kiosks, in the queues for sausage and chips. Shayna explained that she was on a work permit through her American university, earning high pay for her excessive typing skills. When Carl asked her how it was that he had gotten so lucky as to meet her, she neglected to tell him that she frequently drank alone, and tonight was no different.
    As the evening wore on, Shayna noted many fine qualities in Carl: generosity, humor, sportsmanship, the fine accent, the gray eyes. Quite simply, he meant her no malice and she appreciated the gesture. When the pub closed they shook hands as a show of restraint.
    Carl had told her who his father was, and Shayna had been careful not to mention her inability to get through the man’s books. She decided the blame must lie with her since she was American and it was her heritage not to be able to pay attention. The next day she bought one of Niall Meara’s novels, thinking the outlay of cash might make his writing more interesting. It didn’t, but she spent some time manhandling the volume and dog-earing pages, in anticipation of a visit from the son.

    Carl stayed at Shayna’s place on their second date, the two of them having just seen a French film. It was a tiny room in North London, big enough for a twin bed, a dresser, and a freestanding wardrobe. The