It was Jeanne holding two plates of roast veal.

“This may be tacky, but I thought you’d be hungry . . .”

We had switched off the lamps and settled ourselves on the living room floor with all the cushions and pillows in the house. The dirty dishes were by the radiator; breadcrumbs pricked at our necks and bellies. I saw to it that our wineglasses were always half-full; I was getting a pleasant buzz and Mathieu would shut his eyes for long seconds before picking up the conversation, vaguer now than it had been early in the evening, because our thoughts were less clear— less aggressive too, because of the cozy atmosphere we’d managed to create. It was a time of confidences murmured in voices so soft that we both had the feeling the other ­didn’t altogether want to be heard, that he was talking to himself; it was a precious moment, a magical one, and I savoured it, pricking up my ear to grasp everything Mathieu said while trying to be as articulate as I could when it was my turn to talk.

Mathieu drained his glass and covered it with his hand to let me know he didn’t want any more.

“I don’t think it’s wise to move in with someone for good just like that, after such a short time . . . You saw the fuss we made tonight, over nothing? I don’t want to live my life that way . . . Sure, it was sweet of her to bring us supper after everything, but you have to admit it wasn’t very cool . . . Those women are part of your daily life, Jean-Marc, so I’ll have to get used to them! You practically live in a commune! But it freaks me a little, Jean-Marc, having to deal with that every day!”

I was on my way to being seriously drunk. I’d rested my cheek on a pillow that felt surprisingly cool. I’d have gladly fallen asleep there, under Mathieu’s nose, and slept straight through. Then I felt a hand in my hair; I smiled. When I opened my eyes Mathieu’s face was very close to mine.

“Shall I put the icing on the cake right now, Jean-Marc? Have you given any thought to my son?”

I hadn’t, but I pretended I had and I bluffed, even though the mere thought of a child in the house gave me the shakes: “Bring him over! Introduce us! We’ll see what ­happens then!”

Mathieu

Mathieu

“You still use too much salt . . .”

Mathieu looked up from his plate, ready to answer back. Louise was smiling, that little smile he used to love so much, even when he wasn’t sure if it indicated amusement or mockery, though it always transformed her face ­suddenly and surprisingly, like a blush.

He scraped his plate with his spoon because he knew it got on Louise’s nerves and returned her smile.

“Yes I am, and nobody nags me about it any more.”