Bohemia Village Voice  Bohemia Village Voice

For bohemians everywhere

Vivienne Chalken

Freudian Slip

She sits on the balcony and looks down the hill. A pair of swans swims on the pond. Everything is so peaceful. Changes here only come slowly with the seasons.
‘Who AM I?’ she thinks. Beside the driveway she can see her expensive silk slip and French knickers hanging on the country clothes line, pale cream ghosts of a former life, flapping in the wind, beside the bed sheets. Her flag of residence.
She goes inside and looks in the mirror. The early signs of middle-age are creeping across her face. She is only 34 but the fast-paced lifestyle has taken its toll.
“WHO is this person who looks back at me?” She says it aloud, although she is alone, so the words will have more weight; will anchor her to this place and keep her from floating away.
She grew up here, blessed by the gods with the randomly given gift of beauty, but left the quiet innocence of this Garden of Eden to taste the wares of the world. And then, ever so slowly, the wild ride started to slow down. Finally, she decided to come back here to rest and reflect; to plan a new future.
In the distance she sees a familiar figure. She is pleased he is still here. They had grown up together. Two peas in a pod, exploring the farm, and life, together. She had always adored him. She had thought they would be together forever; his extra years the safety net of wisdom to her youthful exuberance. But then she grew up. His steadfastness looked boring and his country skills seemed quaint. Those magic hands that could build anything became rough and unsightly compared to the soft hands of city boys. Slowly she realised he was not cool, and to save herself the embarrassment she slipped out of his life. How many years ago was that now? Fourteen? Fifteen?
As she watches him, a strange feeling starts to develop. It is like passing a flowering rose, the sweet waft of perfume comforting and familiar, yet still unexpected. He is a man of his word, practical, loving, church every Sunday. This is a man worth marrying. He turns into the driveway and walks up the stony rise towards her. Suddenly she realises that she loves him. That she always has. That she never stopped loving him. She just forgot about him for a while.
She thinks of her past suitors, their soft hands and their hard drinks, the flashy cars and the Savile Row suits, the pretence, the egos. Candy floss.
She watches him pause and study the growing darkness of the sky. He walks to the clothes line and unpegs the laundry, bringing it with him.
‘How considerate’, she thinks, although embarrassed that he has seen her sexy panties and slip.
He is married. He is faithful. It comes to her so clearly now. She wants a husband just like HIM. She loves HIM. It is a hidden truth that has just been revealed to her, secret knowledge that she had not been privy to before.
“I must tell him. Have I ever told him? Does he know this already?”
He is closer now. Almost at the house. She rushes downstairs and opens the door to greet him.
“Hello,” he says handing her the laundry.
“Thanks,” she says. And then, a pause while she musters the courage to say what she knows she must . . . finally her voice comes, low and slow,
“You know, I love you . . . Dad.”
“I know,” he says as he hugs her.
“I love you too.”

Leave a Response

Please note: comment moderation is enabled and may delay your comment. There is no need to resubmit your comment.