Don't say anything

I folded up the letter and hesitated for a long time before wrapping it. This colorful envelope would have been a bit like giving a present with a friendly smile. A gift, even poorly chosen, gives pleasure, brings a little joy because we always tell ourselves that it is the intention that counts, that the person has thought of us.

Yes, I thought of Paul, but this letter is not a present. This letter will undoubtedly give a taste of bitterness in his mouth as if he had a drunk whole salty ocean. He is going to choke on the bottle of wine. I can already feel it coming.

And about me? I will remain like a tiny mouse, unaware of all my actions. The pen wrote, my hand just went with the flow—this perfect cowardice which characterizes me in all ingenuity. I reread my letter calmly. Shutters were closed. I didn't want any distraction from the outside, no noise, no smile that would taunt me when I have just crushed my heart on a piece of paper that didn't ask for anything, like an airplane getting rid of its passengers.

Tonight, like every night, he will be coming home from the office, and I'm afraid. I would like to start smoking, but I have to calm down, so I bite my nails. This threatening letter is quietly placed on the table. My writing is clear, despite the tension that was driving me. It looks feminine. I observe this sheet full of reproaches one last time. But can he blame me for wanting to run away from his love? Birds do manage to escape. Why would I continue to live a story that is going nowhere? Sometimes I get angry with myself. I feel guilty. I tell myself that I should have known before, that obvious signs never lie.

Agnès appeared without warning. Besides, could I foresee that I would spend 38 years lying to those around me and, worse, to myself? Am I sure I lied? Damn, I'm starting to get lost in my questions again. I feel Paul is coming. No one suspects it, but I recognize the footsteps of people nearby. One more thing I have in common with cats. I hear his hurried footsteps on the stairs that will lead him to the third floor, left door. I can already predict the conversation. He will ask me how my day went. I will answer him that I managed to write a chapter not without difficulties because my characters are starting to make me sweat. I will also tell him that I thought of him between two commas, and he will guess from the sound of my voice that I am the worst liar.

Yes, I thought of him, but of her too. I did what I liked to do as a teenager. Make a list of the pros and cons of each. I loved Paul, at least I believe, but my heart stopped vibrating for him . As for the advantages, I struggled. I racked my brains to extract something of value and ticked: kindness. Kindness is hollow, bland, flat. It is kind, and then? Is this enough to pursue our everyday life together? And the downsides: Paul is not Agnès, and that says it all.

I don't know exactly what I understood when I met Agnès's gaze at the crowded café terrace, but I only saw her. The others, although noisy, were absent from the landscape. Agnès. What a sweet name. There is a slight hint that gives her the status of an experienced woman. I think I like it. I like this feeling of being tenderly dominated, that I am being told that they will show me the way because I am a poor wolf lost in the middle of the forest.

I hear the sound of the key into the lock. It's him! Damn, already! He is in advance. I have to silence my thoughts and pick them up later, during the night when he snores, and even the neighbor bangs on the ceiling. As soon as Paul enters the living room. I can see his strange look on his face.

—Are you already here? How come? I said. I know my approach is awkward, but I am so taken aback, I couldn't find anything more enthusiastic.

—Yes, I had a fantastic day, and I needed to talk to you. You always have your nose in your notebooks, jotting down lots of stories, but I don't see you enough. We need to talk, Louise.

— You mean you came back only for 'that'? I mean for us? What do you want to talk about? About your signing of juicy contracts? I feel like we're ready to chat for an extended part of the evening, I told him, laughing. You hate that I smoke, so I'm going to pour myself a glass of red wine. Fancy one too ?

Without waiting for his answer, I sat on the white sofa in the living room. This is my favorite room. I find it to be the most impersonal. Unlike Carole, I never made love in the living room. I don't know what it means to scream with pleasure in a living room. I feel protected, on neutral ground.

Paul looks at me with the depth of someone looking for a treasure at the bottom of the ocean. He forgets that I am anything but an award to be cherished. Should I give him a reminder?

I can sense Paul's nervousness. Beads of sweat roll down his forehead. Why is he putting himself in this state for a simple after-work-style conversation? Am I that intimidating? And the letter, by the way? Where did that damn letter go? I would have liked to give it to him before we spoke— We would have had the beginning of a topic of conversation.

He grabs my hand. I start to shake and am quickly tempted to open the window to let in some fresh air. I feel oppressed. I don't know if he feels it. It seems like he is lost in his own train of thought.

—Louise, it's been a long time. Too long for both of us. I think we deserve something more. Your parents came to the agency, and I told them I was planning to marry you.

Next time Paul wants to talk to me, remind me of something! Avoid red wine on a white sofa. In shock, I strangled myself.