Analysis of Child's Play by Monique Proulx

I have already my outline so, you have to use it because my teach have my outline.

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Four forty-five In the afternoon. Marie has her thumb out, her bag is wedged between her ankles like a shapeless beast. The weather is muggy, the trees in the Parc Lafontaine are edged purple in the dusk.

Four forty-eight. A white Renault stops in front of Marie. The driver leans out, he has Ronald Reagan’s ravaged eyes and a well-worn trenchcoat.

‘’where are you going?’’ he inquire.

‘’where are you going yourself?’’ Marie replies.

Four fift-two. The white Renault is creeping along

Over her crossed legs Marie’s skirt is a small dark brazen stroke with nothing to hide. The driver’s eyes waver to wards it.

‘’what’s your name?’’ He pretends to be interested.

‘’Twenty bucks,’’ Marie says. ‘’No penetration. Twenty-five  for a blow job, five more if you touch.’’

It make her smile every time, she can’t help thinking of leeks or strawberries: it’s three dollars for one box, twenty-five if you take a dozen. But the driver doesn’t smile. He has turned red, gotten upset, there’s not enough space in his nose for him to breathe. The silence lasts a block

‘’where?’’ He suddenly gives up.

‘’Here’’

‘’In the car’’

Yes. She knows the city, its empty nooks and crannies, there’s a quiet alleyway nearby just asking to be used. As for the Renault seats, they’re famous for reclining fully.

Five-oh-eight. The white Renault. Its doors locked, is parked at the side of nameless blind alley. The driver’s pants have been pulled down to his thights. The driver’s body, collapsed in the shape of a capital I on the reclined seat, quivers, shakes and shudders. The driver’s penis is in Marie’s mouth. It’s a little one ,and already seems about no explode, but doesn’t. Before stretching out, the driver put an environmental music tape into his stereo. Now all sorts of lapping sounds can be heard in the car, adorned every now and then by the small cries of surprised birds. The driver has closed his eyes, he moans a bit, he must think he’s lying in a mossy clearing in the shadow of a gurgling waterfall. As for Marie, she is twisting about, annoyed because all this water going glubglubglub makes her need to pee. There are also loud rumblings from the driver’s stomach. Marie thinks of the coloured illustrations of digestion she saw recently in a book, the small and large intestines, the jejunum and the ileum, she has to force herself not to burst out laughing, she has always had a tendency to giggle at the wrong time.

Five-twenty. The dreiver ejaculates into Marie’s mouth. Marie thinks of cold pure milk, of cream soda, of the foamy vanilla milkshakes of her early childhood, she thinks about other things, but it isn’t easy.

Five twenty-two. The driver is crying. They often cry that way,after. Marie doesn’t worry about it and waits calmly.Just liquids,lost for ever. Without looking at her the driver gives her everything he’s got in his wallet,which is forty-two dollars. He asks her if he can drop her of somewhere.

Five thirty-three. Marie is on the escalator in The Bay, she goes to the fourth floor. The people around her seem tired and sullen; it’s because of their work, or the time, or the neon lights,or all of it together.

Five thirty-seven. Marie goes back down The Bay’s escalator,her bag under one arm,a big parcel in the other.

Five fifty-seven. Marie goes home. She eats sausages and mashed potatoes

Six thirty-four. Marie is sitting on her bed. She opens her bag,takes out her geography and math books,pushes them into a corne. She unwraps the parcel. It’s white bear cub,plush,with a black nose and gleaming eyes. Marie takes the bear cub,lies down with it,cuddles into its synthetic heat,stay like that for hours,a vague smile on her lips. When  you’re twelve,something like that can still make you happy