Original text
Jean-Marc waltzes across our salon* in an African tunic and a five o’clock shadow. In his left hand he is holding a small can of satin finish paint, in his right, a cream-tipped pinceau.*
“Ça va, Mr. Touch-up?” I say. The man in the calf-length tunic responds by poking his femme* in the nose with the wet tip of the paintbrush. When I complain, he assures: “C’est lavable à l’eau.”*
While the kitchen project is en attente,* my husband is busying himself with odd jobs, including “lay ruh-toosh.”* Zigzagging through the house in his favorite leisure wear, he runs the pinceau over child-size fingerprints, across chipped baseboards and along the bathroom door in his quest to camouflage.
Because Mr. Touch-up forgets to mention where he’s been, the kids and I are never sure just what surfaces are wet and when to se méfier.* It’s the cream-colored streak across the seat of a pant (where I’ve backed into a wet wall) or beneath Max’s palm or on Jackie’s fingertip that reminds us–if trop tard*–that the tunicked touch-up artist has struck again. Touché!*
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*References: le salon (m) = living room; le pinceau (m) = paintbrush; la femme (f) = wife; C’est lavable à l’eau = It’s washable with water; en attente = on hold; lay ruh-toosh (pronunciation for les retouches (fpl) = touch ups); se méfier = to beware; trop tard = too late; touché! = gotcha!
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