Jeanne came back carrying a Coke. She sat on the arm of Mélène’s chair and planted a kiss on her shoulder. Such tenderness emanated from the two of them, such serenity, I felt a pinch in my heart. They’ve been together for more than ten years now and they’re a cliché-sort of old couple that touches me as my parents did when I was a teenager, with their little habits and their ways of being thoughtful to each other, their childish rows, their exuberant reconciliations, their troubling silences. Why is it that I find old couples so moving while new ones always seem almost silly? Mélène claims it’s because I’m afraid of getting involved in a relationship that might be a lasting one even though it’s what I really want. That’s simplistic, but it makes sense: with what had been happening to me over the past few days I was thinking she could be right. I was attracted by Mathieu but I was pushing him away, as if I were scared by how important he could become in my life if I let him. Maybe my suspicion of young actors was been just an excuse to protect my fragile independence.

All at once I felt transparent, too simple; I felt as if I lacked density, I understood myself too easily and I bored myself—something that happens a little too often for my ­liking. I got up to leave. They both kissed me very ­affectionately, as if to console me.

“We had a good laugh just now, Jean-Marc, but it really doesn’t matter if you’re meeting him on Saint-Denis . . .”

“I know that. Anyway, we’re meeting at the corner of Sherbrooke. We’ll see whether we go north or south.”

Mélène took one last sip of cognac.

“If you go north I’ll let you see him again; but if you go south, it’s bye-bye Mathieu.”

I took a walk through Outremont before turning in. I knew that if I went to bed in my present state I wouldn’t fall asleep but would toss and turn, cursing and pounding my pillow.