Mme El and I

She is direct with everybody and I am no exception. In addition I am the only regular visitor, her attention is necessarily focussed on things concerning me. She doesn’t hesitate to comment on my appearance, be it clothes or body, which doesn’t bother me except that it can be a bit repetitive because of her failing memory.
‘Vous êtes maigre’, thin. I ask back, does she mind? Certainly not, as long as there is enough strength in me, I understand.
Other observations by Mme El : ‘Votre visage est rouge!’ after I had bent down to fasten her shoes. ‘des veines, des peines’, veins, pains, that’s her looking at my hands.
Mme El is eighty-nine. When she hears the figure she says it’s time to go, but then laughs mischievously, obviously not prepared to do so just yet. I tell her that suits me. I dressed up a bit for her because she likes it. I suppose she likes her friends to look good: yellow blouse, her favourite colour, ‘golden Oriole – le loriot jaune – le jaune remonte le moral’, yellow improves our morale, under green pullover, topped by the Vietnamese tiger-eyes necklace, golden-brown, my best jeans, brand new and ironed, black all-leather shoes from Pau, hair done up! She looked me up and down, pleased!
She points out the deep fold in the skin of my throat. I remind her of my age and say that it’s better there than in the face. She nods agreement.
She tells me that my colourful pullovers make me look younger, ‘cela vous rajeunit’.