And then an image of making love with Mathieu appeared and washed away my nostalgia. I’d turned a corner, Mathieu was now my absolute priority, and I just needed to find a way to link these two poles of my life which, up till now, had merely grazed each other without really merging: the security of a family that we’d created ourselves, based on indissoluble friendships, and my life with Mathieu, a life that was more intimate and more exclusive.

I watched Mélène go back and forth in the kitchen she hated so much and my heart swelled with a love very ­different from the one I felt for Mathieu, but which was truly love, I was certain of that. I wished I could tell her, but how can you say “I love you” to a friend and not sound pompous or risk offending her sense of propriety—or your own? For a couple, love is declared with great exclamations and very specific acts; between friends, love is more delicate, something that with time may even become nebulous: one must learn to decode words and acts, while knowing that the other person is doing the same, and in the end everything becomes comfortable, taken for granted.

After my third coffee—and Mélène‘s coffee is closely ­related to dynamite—I couldn’t sit still any longer; I’d progressed from the bland beatitude of the first hours to a kind of agitation I couldn’t explain, and it made me do something that I knew was silly but still couldn’t resist: how long has it been, I asked myself, since you’ve let Mélène know how much you love her? I felt at the same time like a total wimp and extremely perceptive. That is, my prudishness made me feel that telling her was a wimpish thing to do, but I felt perceptive too because I’d realized that Mélène probably needed this proof of affection as much as I did. So I didn’t resist, the urge was too strong and any delay would have acted as a censor: when Mélène suggested that we continue the conversation in the living room I got up, took her in my arms and held her for a long time. And I told her. We stood there in the middle of the kitchen without talking. Tears weren’t far away and I almost hoped that they’d come.

“It just takes a second, come up and give us a kiss . . . You always used to be around . . . too much, even . . . but now we never see you. I’m not criticizing, I’m just stating a fact . . . We understand what’s happening, Jeanne and I, and we’re very happy for you and Mathieu but . . . I don’t know how to put it . . .”

“You feel abandoned?”

“We aren’t on the verge of suicide but we miss you . . . And the others too. Our Saturday suppers aren’t the same . . . We miss our favourite macho . . .”