Come.
You left me for dead.
I wore trousers and rollnecks for three weeks. Beneath the wool I was always hot. It was good.
Come.
We lost sight of each other for seven months. I went back to writing, and went out less. She met someone else, younger than me, and also more amorous. She got divorced.
I saw her again once. It wasn’t by chance. I had left messages on her answerphone which she didn’t answer. I pretended to be astonished at bumping into her. She was wearing a miniskirt. She was still just as beautiful. We went for a drink. She said I looked ill. She was right. My psycho-moral structure had rallied and that depressed me. I didn’t want to talk. Before leaving she went to the toilets. I followed her. On the stairs she turned to me and smiled.
Unlike a man, a woman needs time. My pleasure isn’t something instant. It extends and blossoms after the act. My pleasure, it’s happiness for later on.
I felt well for the first time in seven months. A strange sensation, somewhere between a light breeze and a draught. It goes by and it sneaks back, envelops you. You ask yourself whether you’re dreaming. It didn’t really matter that we fucked after that, her smile was all I needed to be happy.
I still wanted him but it was different. I felt detached. He followed me all the way into the women’s toilets. The place was empty. I told him that afterwards it would be over. He agreed. I closed the door behind us.