He liked it that she was young. He liked it that he impressed her, he who didn’t impress many people. Patrick remembers her back, the nape of her neck as she slumbered in the afternoon – the slumber of a child. The softness of her thighs, her moist sex. He didn’t even do anything extraordinary with her, there were no buried fantasies he wanted to play out with her – she had been open to his appetites, willing, joyously naive. With her, he’d just felt less old, and had loved her like a teenager. There had been times, with Valérie, when routine sex, eroded by habit, had been replaced with a few more exciting experiences, variations supposed to reawaken their flagging libidos. But with Céline, he didn’t need them, or want them. Her nakedness alone, her expressions of surprise and pleasure, the memory of a cry or a hesitation would give him a hard-on hours later. She was no longer his friend’s daughter. She was just herself, and his. It took a lot of insincerity to keep up the pretence, to not feel like a bastard. Céline could be a bit stupid, a bit slow, answering his calls in a childish voice, calling her friends “bitch” or “my darling”, relating very seriously some silly little conflict with a teacher. He sometimes found it annoying, it reminded him of his age, but wasn’t enough to put an end to his addiction. Her smooth skin, her toned flesh, her enthusiasm. This obsession hurt sometimes, but it opened up a world in which he was the opposite of what he appeared: the opposite of a bastard, the opposite of an old fool screwing a little girl; it was just the possibility of being something else that she offered him, a glimpse of an inexpressible absolute, a truth that would never be shared by others – an undefined, yet essential truth that was much more powerful than he. With her, he felt better, as though everything could start again.

He’s back here for the weekend, he had to see her. In addition, he has to pick up a few more things Valérie has been kind enough to store for him; she’s kept the apartment. It’s hard to afford the rent, but she seems to be managing. He hasn’t thought about this topic too much.

He’s arranged to meet Céline in the park, the one at the back of the town hall. There’s nobody here at this time, and besides, it’s winter: the slides are wet, the soil muddy, split by frozen puddles.

He sees her coming from a distance, wheeling the buggy in front of her. He sees her dark hair swaying as she moves, her new hairstyle clearing her face, her hips pressing against the buggy’s handle. She stops a few feet away, seems not to want to go further, so he walks towards her.