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Page 30.
 “Your eggs and ham are ready,” she said, opening but not closing the door and then fumbling in the sink.
“I’ll be right out.” He turned off the water and dried himself behind the shower curtains.
It was a small, ancient bathroom with tall ceiling, tiled walls, and separate sink spigots for hot and cold. Its milky-rippled window set in warped wood were rarely opened. She bent over, washing her face, as he sidled past wrapped in his damp towel. It was 7:15.
“I’ll drive you to work if you’d like,” he said.
She groped blindly for a towel. “No, thanks. I’d rather walk. Thanks anyway.”
Not to be seen. Not to have betrayed yourself. Or Jérôme.
Marc stood awkwardly as she dried her face and smiled at him with gleaming red cheeks.
I have never met this guy but I’m calling him Jérôme.
Her eyes radiated a glimmer of defeat or shame or something nuanced. He reached out to embrace her. She came a bit stiffly but unresistant into his arms.
“I slept well,” he said.
She pushed gently. Her brief glance told him she had not slept well. Her eyes glistened. “Your eggs are getting cold.”
Your eggs too.
He ate silently, and had to swallow every mouthful with difficulty. He relished only the electrically perked coffee which was aromatic, strong, and yet delicate.
Like her precious bush.
She hurried from the bathroom with her hair in a turban and a bath towel wrapped around her slender body.
“You could be in commercials, Emma.”
“Oh please, sweetie.” She came close and pecked him on the cheek. “You know how to flatter a girl.”
“Cigar girl,” he said
“I’m all about the cigar. I know. I can’t escape.” She added: “I have been in commercials.”
“Really.” It wouldn’t surprise him.
“A company from Brazil needed blondes to advertise how nice it is to visit Rio. It went well. I swayed around and they added samba music. Then you know who got jealous.”
Jérôme.
“And that was the end of it. I could go back into it maybe. Who knows. If I ever get free.” She dressed quickly, bouncing with hurried motions on the living room couch. She emerged from the bedroom, restored to that formal, gamine, almost wounded, sultry prettiness as he’d first seen her. A delicately flowered skirt reached from her neck to her knees. High heels made the calf muscles of her long legs tense in an accentuated stalkiness. Her carefully trimmed blonde mane bounced about her shoulders and forehead as if she were trapped in a TV commercial landscape without time or cares.
She sat down beside him as he tied his shoelaces. She folded her hands in her lap. She had drawn fine mascara lines through the pale hairs on her eyelids. The mascara on both lower eyelids was faintly smudged.
She asked, “Do you have everything you need?” It was a preamble to saying goodbye.
He did not want to say anything glib, noting that could be mistaken for bluster or flattery. “I’m very content, and a little guilty,” he said.
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