Episode 36. Bubble Trouble

With Emilie, Charlene, and Eric gone, we're alone again.

Angie, standing in the middle of the living room, grabs the screen remote and puts on some music.

To the beat, she lets her robe slip down to her feet... before bursting into laughter.

Angie grabs a cushion within reach and flings it straight into my face.

The counterattack is immediate.

Within seconds, a joyful, uncontrollable pillow fight breaks out. It's an old habit of ours. We launch friendly attacks, dodge flying projectiles, and burst out laughing at every impact.

But this time, things take an even crazier turn.

The battle quickly turns into something worthy of an improvised wrestling match. We exaggerate every move, bounce from couch to bed, challenge each other with improbable holds and theatrical throws. Each of us keeps trying to outdo the other.

Carried away by our enthusiasm, we end up in the bathroom.

Angie opens every bottle of soap and empties them onto the tiles, then immediately sprays the floor with the shower head. With a burst of almost devilish laughter, I take a running start, launch myself... and land flat on my stomach, sliding over the soapy surface in an explosion of laughter.

The water keeps running, spraying us both.

In this shared euphoria, I switch on the dryer.

The cloud keeps growing.

We find ourselves swallowed by a sea of fluffy white foam, covered from head to toe.

Finally, out of breath from laughing like kids, I switch off the dryer.

We step out of the bathroom soaked, covered in foam, skin cool, our minds completely free of any tension.

But my quarters... are a complete disaster.

Angie puffs out her chest, triumphant, as if she has just won the contest.

She walks over to the communication terminal, taps it with her fingertips, and puts on her most professional face.

The channel cuts off with a faint crackle.

Angie stretches at length, then flops down on the couch, visibly very pleased with herself.

The terminal light slowly goes out.

Angie jumps off the couch and makes her way between the scattered cushions, puddles of water, and traces of foam still carpeting the floor.

She places her hand on the biometric reader.

A beep sounds.

The door slides open with a soft hiss.

Angie turns toward the large living-room screen, scrolls through the assignment list with a distracted gesture, and lets out a faint sigh.

Her eyes narrow; she taps the interface with the tip of her finger, as if checking that it is not a mistake.