Voila

I learned French to impress you but you were never impressed. You said my v’s were too soft, their hard edges too flowery when I said, “voila.” Not you, never you. Yours were perfect, or so you said. Even as I ran my v’s between my teeth and lip, sharp against my soft flesh, you said they weren’t good enough. I believed you, even though I knew I’d said it correctly.

I went to France and apologized for my terrible pronunciation, my soft f’s that should’ve been hard v’s. The French stared at me, confused, and told me they understood me perfectly. I’d said it correctly. I told myself they’d just misheard me, I must’ve been wrong and they were just being polite. After all, the French are notorious for being polite.

Even still, you insisted I was wrong. My v’s cut into my lip like an electric carving knife, but it wasn’t enough. I never was.