Don't live in our memories anymore

This morning Paul left the house early. He told me about a very urgent contract to sign. I let him run away, and a cruel thought came over me. It's embarrassing, but for a split second, I started wishing he didn't come back, that he was stuck for hours signing that damn piece of paper. I did not interview him as I might have done in the past. I didn't care if this great-looking apartment would be for a rentier or a young art history student. I didn't care. It was as if my tongue had disappeared overnight like my feelings. I shudder just at this admission. It almost slices my throat to tell myself that I do not feel any lack, that I feel relieved in his absence.

Something is wrong, and it gets me confused. My friend Carole collects commitment-phobic, and I'm only good at wiping tears that I can hardly shed myself. Still, I want to cry. I wish to whine just as I could laugh at the absurdity of the situation. I am naked in our marital bed. The word "conjugal" is ill-chosen. Apart from everyday verbs, I don't conjugate much anymore. I am trying my best, but the sheets aren't even cold without him. The worst part is my lack of guilt, but then why not wait for him when she comes out of work, put on a beautiful dress with spring colors. I would make it spin deliciously in a deceptively indecisive way. I know myself. I know my cheekbones would be red from it, but deep down, I'd love it. Get out of this Louise, who has followed me for 38 years. This Louise, whom everyone believes and wants to see as a wise person, without any madness in her. It seems like nobody knows that Louise can drink gallons of vodka, dance on tables in Petit Bateau panties, scream that her life, her real-life has not yet been born, that 38 years old, is just a random number her identity card claims, but Louise, the real Louise is just coming out of her shell.

I have the awful feeling of being a hoax for Paul, my family, and, even worse, myself. I am a real scam, a tourist trap. I promise a lot but offer nothing, and worse, sometimes I take it back. I want to take back the love I gave Paul. I swear I tried to take it back from him this morning before he left for the real estate agency. My words were ready in my head. "I'm leaving you" would have been too violent, and heart attacks can be fatal. I am aware of it! I intended to go for a bit of falsely offered diplomacy—kind of like when you give a lousy gift. You instinctively know the person won't like it, but at least you've fulfilled your part of the job.

9:38 am. He is undoubtedly signing the contract of his life, and I want to escape from our life together. My parents are married, and I tell myself that I did well not to follow their path. What kind of mess would I have gotten myself into? Either way, I'm too free to like contracts. Nobody is allowed to tie me up. I enjoy my freedom way too much. But tell me, why do you refuse to release me? Last night, I thought I felt Paul's hand stroking my back with the delicacy of a teenager who is afraid of going about it the wrong way. I smiled with pleasure because I thought about the softness of your hands. I kept remembering your perfume running under my nostrils. It was a sweet and dangerous cocktail, but it was tasty. I was scared, it's obvious. I don't like to admit my weaknesses, but I have to stop lying to myself.

With Paul, I feel like a kid who would never have got his hands on his textbook but who would have claimed his dog had had a great supper with the homework. But Paul is not my teacher or even my roommate. He's supposed to be my other half. From my feminine readings, I should feel incomplete without him. This is not the case. Paul is a burden. Ouch, it is said. I carry the weight of what I just said, and it hurts my ears. I think I should write him a letter instead.

A nicely written letter. Paul deserves pretty handwriting without spelling mistakes. He is so much into precision and clarity, he could not blame me for the message that this letter would reveal to him. I have to get out of bed, get out of these sheets, which bring me back to his scent. His smell that I can no longer stand. It is incredibly insane when you come to think of this. I sit down at my desk. It is my own little paradise. There are sheets and post-it of heaps of things I need to do that in the end, I never do, but they reassure me.

This office is my cocoon. Recently, I added a red sign: "DO NOT DISTURB." Paul respects my space. He must sincerely believe that I am working, judging by the multitude of colorful pens that sit in front of my computer. My pens seem to be looking at me. An idea reaches my mind. A straightforward one, no doubt stupid, but still, it is an idea. If I wrote this letter with a light blue pen, wouldn't that make the message sweeter? I admit that could mislead him. He loves the color and would be able to feel happy and be all nice to me at the mere sight of a letter written in that color. No. I'll choose a green pen. Green is obvious. It is clear, clean, and precise. Without too much aggression but it is straight to the point. So he will understand what I am driving at. He will realize that my decision has been carefully considered and that my luggage will follow me in my next life.