Adultery(60)

Enough. Work is the best therapy now that I’ve cried all the tears and thought about everything I needed to think about. But I still can’t shake anything.

I get to the street where I parked on autopilot and find a guard in a red and blue uniform scanning my car’s license plate with a machine.

“Is this your vehicle?”

Yes.

He continues his work. I say nothing. The scanned plate has already entered the system. It’s been sent to the main office to be processed and will generate a letter with the discreet police seal in the cellophane window of an official envelope. I’ll have thirty days to pay 100 francs, but I can also challenge the fine and spend 500 francs on lawyers.

“You went over by twenty minutes. The maximum here is half an hour.”

I just nod. I see he’s surprised—I’m not pleading with him to stop and saying I’ll never do it again, nor did I run to stop him when I saw he was there. I had none of the reactions to which he’s accustomed.

A ticket comes out of the machine as if we’re in the supermarket. He places it in a plastic envelope (to protect it from the elements) and goes to the windshield to place it behind the wiper. I press the button on my key and the lights flash, indicating that a door was left open.

He realizes the foolishness of what he was about to do, but like me, he’s on autopilot. After the sound of the doors being unlocked jolts him, he walks up to me and hands me the ticket. We both leave happy. He didn’t have to handle any complaints, and I got a little of what I deserve: a punishment.





I’LL FIND out shortly if my husband is exercising the utmost self-control or if he really doesn’t give a damn about what happened.

I get home on time after another day of gathering information about the most trivial things in the world: pilot training, a surplus of Christmas trees on the market, and the introduction of electronic controls at railroad crossings. This made me extremely happy, because I was in no condition, physical or mental, to think much.

I prepare dinner as if this were just another evening among the thousands we’ve spent together. We spend some time watching TV while the children go up to their rooms, lured by the tablets or video games on which they kill terrorists or soldiers depending on the day.

I put the dishes in the dishwasher. My husband is going to try to put our kids to bed. So far we’ve only talked about our daily duties. I can’t tell if it was always like this and I never noticed, or if it’s especially strange today. I’ll find out soon.

While he’s upstairs, I light the fireplace for the first time this year. Watching the fire soothes me, and although I’m revealing something I expect he already knows, I need all the help I can get. I open a bottle of wine and prepare a plate of assorted cheeses. I take my first sip and stare at the flames. I don’t feel anxious or afraid. Enough with this double life. Whatever happens today will be better for me. If our marriage has to end, so be it; it will end on a late autumn day before Christmas, while watching the fireplace and talking like civilized people.

He comes downstairs, sees the scene I’ve prepared, and asks nothing. He just settles in next to me on the sofa and also watches the fire. He drinks his wine. I get ready to refill his glass, but he waves his hand, indicating it was enough.

I make a stupid comment: the temperature today fell below zero. He nods.

Apparently, I’ll have to take the initiative.

I really regret what happened at dinner last night …

“It wasn’t your fault. That woman is really weird. Please don’t invite me to any more things like that.”

His voice seems calm. But everyone learns as a child that before the worst storms, there’s always a moment when the wind stops and everything seems absolutely normal.

I push the matter. Marianne exhibited the jealousy hiding behind her modern, liberal mask.

“It’s true. Jealousy tells us: ‘You could lose everything you worked so hard to achieve.’ It blinds us to everything else, to the moments we’ve joyfully experienced, to happy times and the bonds created during those occasions. How is it that hatred can wipe out a couple’s entire history?”

He’s laying the groundwork for me to say everything I need to say. He continues:

“Everyone has days when they say: ‘Well, my life isn’t exactly lining up with my expectations.’ But if life asked you what you had done for it, what would you say?”

Is that a question for me?