Episode 1
I’m pulling away. It’s been happening for a while. Laura and I look at each other without seeing each other. We cross paths without touching. I’d like to say we brush against each other, but even that would be too sensual. I don’t know when it happened. It would make more sense if I could identify the turning point. The decline. The moment when it started to end.
It sounds stupid, but the two of us were a given. We laughed, murmured, made promises. Promises we didn’t keep.
On our second date, I drew her. I compared us to Jack and Rose, in Titanic, because I knew she liked the film. Even if I didn’t. I said that I was just a touch less handsome than DiCaprio, and she was just a touch more dressed than Kate Winslet. She laughed. Since then, I’ve liked that film a little more. Drawing her that night, I found her perfect. I learned her by heart, setting her outline onto the white page, which only comes to life after I trace the last curve of the last of her long lashes. She didn’t laugh when she saw the drawing. No – I think that she loved me. It was mutual. That’s what our bodies told each other, anyway.
I haven’t drawn her for a long time. I could say that she isn’t perfect to me anymore. That I no longer idealise her, that I’m looking for a new model. That would be bullshit. I still find her beautiful, even when she cries until her nose runs. I still find her full of life when she laughs too loud, without knowing I’m watching her. I still find her disarming when she breaks down and smokes cigarette after cigarette, overwhelmed by meetings at work or arguments with her sister. I still see the little girl in her. Maybe too much. Maybe I have too much affection for her to love her. Too much tenderness to desire her. Maybe that’s what everyday life does. Maybe it’s that I simply don’t love her anymore. And I can’t do anything about it. Maybe it’s –
BZZZ BZZZ
I emerge from my thoughts, back into the real world. The noise of the metro, silhouettes around me. Someone coughs. Two teenagers laugh.
BZZZ BZZZ
In my pocket, my phone vibrates. An Instagram notification. A private message from Marion. I don’t know any Marions. I unlock the phone and the message pops up.
Hi Florent, we don’t know each other, but I was at the launch of your last book – which I loved. And I have to say that I loved hearing you talk about it, too. You probably don’t have the time to reply (and might not want to?) but I just wanted to let you know. All the best, looking forward to reading your next book. Marion.
She’s right, I won’t reply. Since my last graphic novel came out, I’ve had dozens of messages like this. Fans, who no doubt think that I’m as good in bed as I am with a pencil. Some send timid messages, and others are more predatory, suggest that I should come visit their houses in the countryside. To talk about my next project, of course. Why not this weekend? Their son will be with his father…
Reception is bad in the metro, and her photo hasn’t loaded. I don’t care. I don’t need to see it. I’ve never replied, anyway. I’m not available.
Each night, the trip home from work is the same. I stay late at the agency, until the cleaners arrive. I’m the last to leave, even when I have nothing to do. Because I can’t face going home, and confronting the emptiness between us. The silence between us. So, I tell Laura that work is killing me. I almost feel like it’s not a lie, even though it’s with her that I know longer know how to breathe.
The metro stops. I step out of the carriage and automatically unlock my phone. Marion’s profile picture appears. It’s not a pretty, seductive blond with a Spritz in hand. Or a mysterious brunette in black and white. It’s Klimt’s The Kiss, one of my favourites. At the top of the stairs to the street, the cold hits me in the face. The wind makes me squint. My fingers are already going numb, so I hurry. I don’t think. And I reply:
Hey, thanks for your message. And nice profile pic!
Marion has been writing to me for a few days now, and I’ve been replying. We talk all day. In the morning, I leave earlier for work, and I dawdle on the way so we can talk. She makes me smile. She makes me laugh. We talk about art, cinema. We talk about ourselves, just a little.
One day, I’m sitting at my desk messaging her, while my colleagues are on lunch. I ask her what she does for work. The conversation has been so natural that I’ve never had the chance to ask her. She doesn’t reply. That never happens. I worry that I’ve made some kind of blunder. I imagine the worst …tax inspector? Escort? Driving-school teacher? I make myself laugh to calm myself down. And I try again:
Are you still there?
She’s writing. Phew.
Sorry, I cut myself.
Not a great excuse. I conclude that she doesn’t want to talk about work, and I don’t press her. After all, she doesn’t push me when she asks if I’m in a relationship and I say that I don’t want to talk about it. It doesn’t matter. Things are easy between us. I think that I like her. And that makes me a bit sad.
I take the lasagne out of the oven. Salmon and spinach, Laura’s favourite. I decided to cook for her tonight, like when we first started dating, seven years ago. I open the window to let out the heat and the steam, and the murmur of the street drifts discreetly into our apartment. During dinner, I’m relaxed. Laura reciprocates my good mood. It’s nice. For the first time in a long time, I’m with her. And I don’t think about Marion.
When Laura gets up to clear our plates, I look over at my phone on the couch. It’s lying face down, the way I leave it when I don’t want to be distracted by notifications. I hear the clinking of dishes. I would have liked Laura to come back and sit down. I would have liked us to look at each other, not speaking, as we finished our glasses of wine. I get up to join her in the kitchen. When I approach her, she jumps and raises her finger to her mouth. I ask her if she cut herself, and she tersely replies that she has.
Her coldness extinguishes the weak flame that has been rekindled tonight. Of course, I think of Marion. When she cuts herself, we laugh about it. Right now, I feel like I want to run out of here and straight to her. To meet her, for the first time. Laura asks me to finish the dishes, tells me that she’s going to bed. So I finish the dishes. With my phone by my side.
Saturday night. I sit in front of one of the kitschy, cult films that I’ve seen a hundred times. One of the films that I’ve gotten into the habit of watching without seeing, too. Laura is in the bedroom. I think. She’s closed the door to the corridor. I want to get up, cross that corridor, find her wherever she is, and kiss her. Do much more than kiss her, maybe.
I pick up my phone to message Marion. It’s the first time that I’ve reached out first. I’m afraid of what that means. No, actually, I think that I don’t care. I don’t know. I ask her: What are you up to?
She replies immediately.
I’m in the bath.
At the beginning of our relationship, when Laura took a bath, I liked to join her with two glasses of white wine. I liked to think that it was something from one of the romantic comedies that she liked. It made her laugh. Often, we made love.
I imagine Marion naked in the hot water and have to take a deep breath. I know exactly what I want to write. But instead, I awkwardly try to keep it light : « Are you sploshing around? »
I wait a few seconds, nervous.
She writes:
Yes, but all alone, sadly.
Reflexively, I sit up straight on the couch. I look in the direction of the door. For the first time, I’m afraid of getting caught. It excites me. Not a sound. I reply. « Should I join you? »
I don’t really know what I’m doing. I am not even sure if I want this, really. The heat that swept over my body dissipates. I gently shake my head, at myself. I write :
Joking!
Of course, it’s not a joke. Of course, I want to join her, this stranger that is so like me. But I don’t want it to be like this.
I write: Enjoy the bath, talk to you later.
When Laura comes to bed, I’m on my phone. I’ve never hidden it. Before, I would scroll through my newsfeed, until I was exhausted. Now, I just pretend. Now, Marion is the only news I’m interested in. In any case, Laura is on her phone too. My phone vibrates, and I can’t suppress an exasperated noise. I thought that it was on silent. But I don’t think Laura cares, anyway. It might even be convenient for her if I flirt with someone else. I don’t know. It’s not important. What is important is this message, Marion asking : « Are you busy?
– No, not at all.
– I was just thinking, maybe we should grab a drink sometime soon. »
My heartbeat quickens. I breathe out, loudly. I think I’ve been expecting this message. I would never have dared to write it myself. And now that I’m reading it, I don’t know what to do about it. That’s not true. I know exactly what to do. I reply:
« Just maybe? »
I trying to play it cool, but all I’m doing is buying time. I think that I’m giving her the chance to change her mind. Or to suggest that I come have a drink with her colleagues. Or that she has a drink with me and my friends. To not be alone with her. Not let something happen that I want to happen.
She writes:
Alright, then we should definitely grab a drink. Better?
I do want her all to myself. I want her, full stop. I want to kiss her. I want us to run away together, to do each other some good. I want to believe that she’s beautiful, this faceless stranger, I want to believe that my body would know how to speak to hers and that together they would be impossible to shut up. No more hesitating.
Much better. When are you free?
Tomorrow after work?
Tomorrow? So soon?
…
Yes. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is already too late.
I write:
« Okay, does around 7pm work for you? Do you have somewhere in mind?
7pm is perfect. I was thinking of Chez Émile in town, do you know it? » Writing a reply, I have the feeling that something inside me is dying. « Yes, I know it. That works for me. »
Marion replies:
« See you tomorrow then, goodnight.
– Yes, see you tomorrow. Goodnight. »
Lying in bed, my heart is beating out of my chest. The seconds pass. The minutes. When Laura turns out her light, I realise that I still have my phone in my hand. I put it on the bedside table and watch the blue light fade away, like a flame dying out. I turn towards Laura. We’re face to face.
I murmur goodnight. She kisses me, and I kiss her back. Her breath caresses my lips. My hand reaches out to caress her waist. Her hips. That night, we make
love like two teenagers, wanting each other each other without knowing each other. Then, like two adults afraid of being recognised, we turn our backs on one another. There’s a knot in my throat.
This morning, I put on cologne. I never wear it normally. I feel ridiculous, like I’m doing my best to get caught. Laura doesn’t say anything. Her indifference almost makes me happy with myself. Almost. I begin making an excuse for my absence that night, but she cuts me off, she doesn’t care.
I really have tried everything to get caught. To the point of inventing a bad excuse, when no one asked for an excuse. I look at her, for a long time. I almost hope that she’s hurt. On her way out of the bathroom, she assures me that it’s fine.
On the way to the restaurant, I’m still hoping to run into someone, a friend that Laura and I have in common, someone that I would be incapable of lying to. Then, ashamed, I would turn around. I want the bus not to come. I want a protest to block the street. I want Marion to cancel, to tell me that she’s moved cities. I want her to tell me that she’s a hitman for the Czech mafia, that she’s a vampire, anything… But Marion doesn’t cancel. And the bus takes me straight to her.
I walk into the restaurant. I wait. She told me that she would find me, because she knows what I look like.
I freeze. I see her. I see her before she comes to find me. She doesn’t need to tell me who she is. I recognise her. I know her.
I move towards her. Slowly, I sit down at the table, where two glasses of wine are waiting for us. She looks at me. On her face is a tenderness that I haven’t seen in a long time. At the corners of her lips, the sweetness of a smile, traced in lines of sorrow. In her eyes, shining with tears, I see the last sparks of the curious illusion that was Marion die out. And so, we look at each other. And I see only her.
I murmur,
“Hi, Laura.”
“Hi.”
Episode 2
He’s pulling away. It’s been happening for a while. Florent and I live together, but separately. I eat dinner with his absence each night. He’s the closest to me, and the furthest away. He’s “swamped at work”, or that’s the official line he gives me when I mention the distance between us. He’s obsessed with his phone. It’s always within reach, and he checks it constantly. Obviously, I thought there could be something going on with one of his colleagues. Florent is an illustrator and has a decent reputation for his graphic novels. A fan, maybe? The thought turns my stomach.
Before, when I came to bed, Florent would always watch me get undressed. I would feel his gaze on me, caressing my body. Often, our eyes met, and he told me that I was beautiful. I would be embarrassed, but turned on, too. Now, all he looks at is his phone, with that damn blue light that takes all his attention. Not much happens in our bed anymore, and sometimes I ask myself if he notices I’m there at all. Maybe if I sent him a message…
A message, yes. Or messages. A conversation. With someone that he didn’t know was me. I could make a fake profile on Insta, pass myself off as a groupie. Then I would know for sure. And I’d have his attention.
A few days later, the idea has taken shape. I have a new Instagram account – my name is Marion. My profile image isn’t a photo, but Klimt’s The Kiss, one of Florent’s favourites. Marion met Florent at a publisher’s launch party. She didn’t talk to him, of course, but she heard him talk about his work. And she liked him. I’ve prepared my first message, after a lot of thought. I put my plan in motion in the street, while walking to my bus stop. I press send and stuff my phone into my bag. I wait for the bus, nervous. I watch a dog pulling at its leash, a woman making a call, a child crying in its pram. I want Florent to reply, even if I know that I shouldn’t. The bus arrives and I get on and sit down. I crack and rummage in my bag for my phone. He’s seen the message. He’s writing back. The bus driver brakes suddenly, and several people standing in the aisle almost fall. My neck smacks against the headrest. The message comes through:
Hey, thanks for your message. And nice profile pic!
It’s happening. We begin a conversation and start messaging every day. In “real life” I act as if nothing’s happening. But as soon as Florent steps out of the door to go to work, I send a message. I’m always the first to message, several times a day. Often at lunchtime, in my usual restaurant, where we had our first date seven years ago. Florent always replies. Our conversation is fluid, friendly. I try to make him laugh, and it works. And he makes me laugh, too.
You’re in a good mood these days!
I jump. It’s Damien, the waiter, who’s caught me in the middle of a conversation with Flo. I blush, mumble something, reach for my glass to regain my composure, but my gesture is clumsy, and it falls to the floor, shattering. I rush to pick up the pieces and cut myself. Shit!
Florent messages:
Are you still there?
Sorry, I cut myself.
Double shit.
That evening, I take care to remove the bandage from my finger before Florent comes home. Dinner is a little less silent than usual. Florent seems more relaxed. I’m flattered, and irritated. I’m thinking about it while doing the dishes, when I painfully re-open my cut while wiping a glass. I jerk my had away and lift my finger to my mouth to stem the bleeding.
Did you cut yourself?
Yes, but it’s fine – it’s nothing.
Florent looks at me for a long moment. I hold my breath and make an excuse to escape: « Can you finish the dishes? I’m exhausted, I’m going to bed. »
Saturday night. I’m in the bath. Florent is sitting in the living room, on his phone no doubt. When we started dating, he would often join me with two glasses of white wine. It was very romantic comedy; I loved it. We would talk about everything and nothing – it was simple, nice. My phone vibrates:
What are you up to?
I’m in the bath.
It’s the first time that Florent has messaged first, and the first time that we’ve written to each other while we’re both at home. I shiver.
Are you sploshing around?
I smile. Florent loves using funny words, he’s a real nerd. I often tease him about it.
Yes, but all alone, sadly.
What am I doing?
Should I join you?
What? Wow. How am I meant to react to that? Does he mean it? I listen for Florent’s footsteps in the corridor. Nothing, obviously. I’m sweating. Another notification.
Joking!
Okay, keep your cool, girl. Go on the offensive.
« Are you? Too bad... » With those three little dots. I bite my lip. He replies: « Enjoy the bath, talk to you later. »
I sigh. I’m relieved. And frustrated. I think I’ve had enough of this little game.
I find Florent in bed, like every night. And, like every night, he’s riveted to his phone. As usual, I turn my back to him, on my own phone. I send a message.
There’s a beep from his side of the bed; Florent stirs. He must be annoyed that he forgot to put it on silent.
Are you busy?
No, not at all.
Clearly.
I was just thinking, maybe we should grab a drink sometime soon. – Just maybe?
Florent replies instantly, without a moment of hesitation. And with a touch of humour that makes me smile, despite everything.
Alright, then we should definitely grab a drink. Better?
Much better. When are you free?
Tomorrow after work?
Florent is thinking about it. I hold my breath, frozen under the blanket. I feel like if I make the slightest movement, a spotlight will flood down on me and a TV presenter will award me Liar of Year in front of a screaming crowd, handing me a microphone for my acceptance speech. Florent writes:
« Okay, does around 7pm work for you? Do you have somewhere in mind?
7 is perfect. I was thinking of Chez Émile in town, do you know it? Yes, Florent – the restaurant where you had, a little over seven years ago, your first date with me. You know, me, the person lying next to you.
A pause. Florent hesitates. Does he dare say yes?
Yes, I know it. That works for me.
Something breaks inside me.
« See you tomorrow then, goodnight.
– Yes, see you tomorrow. Goodnight. »
I put my phone down. After a few seconds the blue light dies out. Florent’s too.
At the same time, we turn towards one another in the dim room. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I kiss him. He kisses me back. It’s been a while. It’s surprising, it’s good. I sense that he is as surprised as I am. We look at each other without seeing each other. That night, we make love gingerly, gently. Afterwards, we turn our backs to each other again, each person on their own side of the bed. I wipe a tear from my cheek.
In the morning, I brush my teeth in the bathroom, Florent next to me. He smells of cologne. He never wears cologne. I think about saying something, but I hold back. It would be cruel. “I have something on at work tonight – you know Stephanie, she’s decided to leave, and…”
“It’s okay, Florent. I can make my own plans.” – “You don’t want to know where I’ll be?”
“No, it’s fine.”
Florent stares at me in the mirror. “It’s fine, really,” I say, leaving the room.
I arrive a little early. I ask Damien to seat me at a little table set apart, facing the door. I order two glasses of wine. I watch the entrance to the bar, feeling like Tony Soprano in the final episode of the series. The thought makes me smile; it’s the kind of thing that I would tell Florent. But this time, I can’t. The thought makes me sad.
He walks in. The instant that his gaze meets mine, he freezes. We look right into each other’s eyes; I feel like he has never looked at me like this. Suddenly, I’m afraid that he’ll walk out. But he doesn’t, he comes towards me, and I start breathing again. He sits down facing me.
“Hi, Laura.”
“Hi.”
We sit a moment. Florent takes a mouthful of wine and lets his hand rest on the table. I take the chance to put my hand on his.
“It’s not the best idea I’ve ever had.”
“I shouldn’t have replied.”
Silence. The conversations around me sound muffled, as though coming to me from another reality.
I feel Florent’s fingers move against mine, and soon we’re holding hands. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
We look at each other for a long moment. Both of us have tears in our eyes.
“We have to think about things, don’t we?”
I nod. Tears roll gently down my cheeks. Florent is crying too, soundlessly. I delicately let go of his hand, pick up my bag, stand up.
“Message me?” he says.
I smile through my tears, he does too.
“Yes, I’ll message you.”
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Anne Cauvel de Beauvillé
Récemment reconvertie dans les métiers du livre, elle a été attachée de presse pour le cinéma, conceptrice-rédactrice indépendante et directrice de production de spots publicitaires. Elle écrit des nouvelles dont certaines ont été publiées en revue ou lauréates de concours. Elle est également membre du comité de lecture de la revue Rue Saint Ambroise.
Dorian Masson
Dorian Masson est auteur. Après de nombreuses publications en revue et avoir remporté plusieurs concours littéraires, il publie Plus de likes que d’amour aux éditions de l’Iconoclaste (2022). Au quotidien, il écrit pour la publicité, poste des textes courts sur son compte Instagram et anime des ateliers d’écriture. Il se produit également sur scène, où il lit ses textes en musique, à la frontière de la performance et du théâtre.
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