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 . . .”

I often used to put on a macho act when I’d had a bit to drink, to the delight of the ladies who found my imitation irresistible. They’d laugh at my vulgar jokes and call me “mon oncle Joe”; they’d throw paper napkins or launch a chorus of boos when I overdid it . . . I felt an aching urge to experience it all again. And I realized that the worst thing that could happen to me would be to have to make a final choice.