Rose got up around noon, dark circles under her eyes, which gleamed with a new light. They didn’t talk about the night they’d just lived through—a certain shyness had returned—but each was aware that the secret bond that had been forged between them would be solid and durable, even if it wasn’t always expressed aloud. Such privileged moments can’t be summoned, they have to be simply allowed to come, and now they both knew it was possible. The day passed then, between a boring movie on TV, some games with Sébastien that were sometimes enjoyable, sometimes not, reading the weekend papers, a long shared bath that filled the apartment with shouts and the bathroom with suds: Mathieu washed Sébastien’s hair; Sébastien washed Mathieu’s.

Rose took it all in with a look that was filled with ­satisfaction and emotion. After all, wasn’t Mathieu’s happiness more important than her prejudices? But there was an aftertaste, a hint of bitterness that spoiled the day for her a little: between comprehension and acceptance, there was one step she had yet to take, one that would probably be the hardest. Around five o’clock, when Mathieu and Sébastien were about to leave, she took Mathieu aside and said:

“Don’t ask me to meet him right away . . . I’ll need time.” He held her very tight, even rocking her a little, as if she were a big child.

“Let me know when you feel ready . . . Take as long as you need . . . Even if it never happens, I won’t hold it against you.”

“It won’t be never, but it may take a while . . .”

Sébastien demanded his share of hugs, the taxi came and they quickly took their leave.

Jean-Marc

Jean-Marc

All right, I admit it, I was bored!

The Saturday was fine; I listened to a lot of music—my new earphones are sensational—I moped around the house pretending to clean up, though all I did was move the dust around, I bought groceries at Lemercier’s and a dozen ­magazines at the bookstore, a few local but mostly foreign, as behooves any good citizen of Outremont—I’ve just ­discovered the fashionable French weekly, L’Evénement du jeudi, which I’m hooked on—I even did a bit of work and enjoyed it a little, then I went up to have supper with Mélène and Jeanne, who were alone that evening, and who dished out the usual cracks about Saturday-night widowers. I reassured them by telling them Mathieu and Sébastien were “at the mother-in-law’s.” In all, a quiet day, fairly ­pleasant, that let me rediscover the enjoyment of looking after, by myself, those tedious little chores that for a few months now I’d got used to doing à deux.