En Francais
They weren't what you would call the obvious choice for couple hood. It was the dueling sights of his round belly and her tall hair, he had assented once. They were simply much too much to handle.
On those days, Marge wonders if Homer's just a little bit drunk.
***
It wasn't an easy beginning. It never is, when you're a couple of high school sweethearts who only know each other through the magical tongue du francais. But she had enough patience to listen to him, and it was listening he needed.
Marge shivered and pulled her peacoat closer to her body as they walked toward the small apartment he shared with his father. Homer came from the bad side of town - the side her mother always demanded she stay away from. Marge couldn't deny to herself that there was some appeal to that.
The brick row house was smack dab in the center of the block, with a clothes-line connecting it to the neighboring unit and flower boxes filled with ladybug-dusted pansies. Marge had to crane her neck to stare up at the furthest spire of the tallest building; except for a brief field trip to Capitol City, she had never seen anything quite like what danced before her eyes.
She finally gave him her thoughts when they were alone together in his apartment. "Welcome to my adabo, mon Cherie," Homer said. Marge giggled. "What do you think?"
"Everything's so tall," she remarked.
He snorted and nodded. "They're planning on building the World's Tallest Girder and putting it in Downtown Bumville," Homer declared. "My dad's gonna be the one who makes sure they have clams at the opening ceremony."
"I still haven't met your dad," Marge pointed out. "I don't even know what he's like!"
"No sweat," Homer shrugged. "If you hang around tonight, I'll introduce you." He grabbed her about the waist and dragged her across the sofa. "But while we wait, why don't we practice our French...kissing?"
Only Homer could make such a proposal sound semi-charming to her. And it was nice to neck somewhere where her mother couldn't see her, peep in and bring down an avalanche of moral rancor. Marge just allowed herself to be swept away by the moment, which is something she often allowed to happen with Homer.
When the door opened they flew apart, fixing hair and clothing. Homer's father couldn't have cared less about the state of their bodies, though - he thudded through the living room, into the kitchen, and audibly popped open a beer. Marge looked toward Homer and shrugged.
"Boy," Abe acknowledged, entering the room again with a beer and paper. He sat down in his easy chair and opened the paper to the sports section.
Homer shoved a hand through his hair. "Dad, this is Marge."
Abe looked over the top of his paper and grunted. Homer gave Marge a brief, awkward smile.
"Hi, Mister Simpson!" Marge chirped, offering Abe her hand. He took it eventually and gave it a firm shake back.
"So that's the tomato from your French class, eh?"
Homer grinned. "Yep!! Isn't she a stone cold fox?"
Abe gave Marge a once-over. "She looks all right. Taking care of her?"
"Yes sir!"
Abe grunted and returned to his paper. Smiling nervously, Marge turned back to Homer. "Let's get back to the books," she requested.
Homer did just that, gently squeezing Marge's hand before turning back to his volume of French phrases.
***
The marriage wasn't exactly easy, but how could it have been? She'd been planning on going to college, and he had been planning on sleeping on Barney's sofa forever. But somehow everything had turned out all right after all - in their new Ethnictown apartment, with little Bart at their side -
Homer handed her a beer. "Tu vraiment soif," Homer said, to Marge's pleasure - it was so rare for him to speak French around her these days.
She gently handed it back. "Non," she replied. "No alcohol."
"Why?" Homer said. "I was hoping it'd go right to your head."
Marge giggled. "Je suis enceinte."
His eyes went wide and he spun her around. "Really?! This is great!!" He put her down. "This IS great news?"
She nodded. "Tres jolie," she said, and kissed him.
****
Raising the kids hadn't been easy. Heaven knew that. And it took a hell of a lot of effort. But still, they'd managed to send Lisa to college, Bart to clown college, and Maggie to the police academy.
She touched the portrait over the fireplace with gentle affection. It had taken them forever to get them all together for the portrait. Lisa had physics homework; Bart was across town working on a construction project; Maggie was in college. But for her birthday they had come together, smiled, put on their best clothes and tried their damnedest to be there for one another.
Marge, needless to say, treasures that picture, and its frame, inscribed:
Une Familie De Simpsons
****
She's the age her mother was the day she saw her off to marry that Simpson boy - not a day over sixty, though her roots don't stay quite as blue as they used to on their own.
She and Homer live quietly now - in their little house next to the nuclear plant, with the (third) dog and (fourth) cat, and sometimes Bart when he's passing through town and wants a spare bedroom (he's been talking about staying more often now, to Marge's delight). She adores her children to bits, loves and spoils her grandchildren, and spends days at a time painting in her garden and practicing her French.
Homer's thinking of taking up the tuba.
And what have they learned, having come through that cold night where they couldn't see each other? When they fought and screamed and argued til the cows came home? What do they see in each other after all of the conflict, the anger, the joy and the laughter?
She turns to him and says 'j'tiem'.
And, if his mood's right, if he's truly sure they're alone and can't be heard, Homer will say it right back.