"Don't let my father hear you say that, he'd give you a piece of his mind on what language, exactly, the Canadians speak..." At least Ever's tone of voice was teasing, easy. It lacked his father's strident fury. Nevermind that his father spoke like a goddamned sailor -- Marseilles was not a pretty accent -- he still argued that he spoke real French.
Hey. A memory of his father that made Ever grin instead of cringe. Who knew he even had any of those?
He finally drew to a halt, and this time there was no hunting for the book, no fingers trailing over spines, no tipping his head to find the right one. Instead he pulled the book [another slim volume] out and set it on top of her Kafka.
The cover was stark. Dark. Hand-written: L'Étranger. He twitched a smile.
"These two books are buddies. Enjoy."
