Séverine shakes her head, searching for help in a sip of coffee that’s already lukewarm and revolting. Cheap coffee, always the same, because every little helps. And a rolling stone gathers no moss. And better a bird in the hand than two in the bush. And shit!

She downs the rest of the coffee from the pottery mug like a shot of vodka, throat open, elbow sticking out.

The old woman takes advantage. “Manuel married you, at least.”

“Fuck, Maman, we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about Céline!”

“You’d better not use that tone with me, otherwise —”

“Otherwise what?”

“Otherwise I’ll call your father.”

She’s walking – practically running – to the car when Pascal catches her by the arm. She frees herself with a violent jerk.

“Idiot! You scared me.”

“It’s only me.”

“Well, give some kind of warning. You can’t leap on people like that.”

He smiles sheepishly. “I just wanted to know how you’re doing.”

“All right.”

She opens the car door, dismissing him abruptly. The man pulls his head into his shoulders but cocks it to the side, smiling at an angle. He has the morning light in his eyes, making them look more bronze than brown. She remembers she used to be quite fond of him.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re on edge. Is it your daughter?”

Behind Pascal, the workers are setting off to the field of apple trees.

“You should go. You know what my father’s like.”

“You know … there’s quite a bit of talk about this…”

Séverine tenses up. Her face suddenly hardens, and the man can see her cheeks grow hollow as she tries to keep calm. He remembers her well from when they were teenagers, even though they weren’t together for long. He would never have admitted it to his mates, but he was strangely in love, for a kid; so much so that he can remember details like this, like the soft skin in the crook of her elbows, and the smell of her hair and her sweat. Her cheeks, hollow with anger.

“It’s just that… I don’t know… I’d quite like to help you, you see.”

“Help?”

“I mean to find the guy.”

Séverine very gently shakes her head without looking away.

He realizes he’s said something stupid.

“You’re all the same.”

“Séverine…”

“How’s your wife?”

“Fine…”

“And your boy?”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

She gets into the car and slams the door. The noise of the engine drowns Pascal’s last words and his pathetic attempt to say that he’s not as stupid as she thinks.

The Path of the Drip

The Path of the Drip