“Don’t I know it.” Apparently, the French like to engage in many after-work drinks and dinners during the week. After having been away for two months, Camille has many people to see. While I have to drag myself back out there and pick up my life where I left it post-Rebecca. Maybe now that we’re back on sort-of speaking terms, I should see some of our mutual friends who knew about Rebecca’s affair and failed to tell me. Right after the break up, in my head, I had put them into her camp immediately and refused to speak to them when they reached out.

“Give me a few minutes while I change rooms.” She blows a kiss into the camera and I hear an offended meow as she shoos Iris off her lap. The screen gets blurry as Camille walks to her bedroom, of which I’ve gotten as detailed a tour as a laptop camera allows.

While I wait, anticipation hums in my blood. I won’t have to look at myself on the screen. With a few clicks I can make the little rectangle with my image disappear completely and only focus on Camille. As long as we’re not recording this.

“Hey,” she says, her head resting on an upturned palm. It looks like she’s lying on her side. “I’m ready for my striptease now.”

“You were serious about that?”

She just smiles and says nothing. I’m not really in the mood to start stripping just yet.

“Talk to me,” I say, wishing I had control over the zoom function of her camera and I could let my lens swoop over her body the way that I see fit, letting my focus slide from one area to the next—feeling a little more in control than I do now.

“I want to see you, Zoya,” she repeats. Her tone has gained intensity. “Please.” With a soft smile on her lips, she starts to unbutton her blouse. It’s a linen one of which she seems to have an endless supply in pastel colors. “I want you to see me,” she continues. “As soon as we log off Skype, it’s all I think about. I’ve barely been back for a month, but that video isn’t cutting it anymore. I need something more and new to tide me over until I can hold you in my arms again.”

“How many more days?” I ask, even though I know the number. I repeat it ceaselessly throughout the day. It’s the first thing I think of when I wake up, when I have subtracted another night from the time keeping us apart.

“Thirty-three,” she says, her voice so sultry she makes it sound like a dirty word.