The three of us sat in the corner table while Émile ordered the duck. In this light, I saw the deep cavities that had formed under his eyes and cheekbones. The skin around his lips had taken on a dusty color. His face recalled the painting that Man Ray had done of Marcel Proust on his deathbed.

The dinner was deadly silent. Sylvie glared at him as he ate, her hands at her sides and her posture as straight and still as a dressmaker’s form. When he’d swallowed the final forkful of duck, Sylvie clapped her hands and announced, “Well, that’s done. You’ve eaten. Can we go now, Cecile?”

I was taken aback by her rudeness. “Sylvie!”

Scowling, she pulled out a cigarette and met my eyes, her face defiant.

After we left the restaurant, Émile reached for my hand. “Please come back with me.”

The idea of going back to that apartment where I’d stood outside listening to them was unthinkable. As though Sylvie read my mind, she said, “We can all go.”

This was not the response that either Émile or I wanted. Since dinner, I’d longed to talk with him alone, but Sylvie tagged along behind us, making it clear she wouldn’t be leaving without me. As we ascended the stairs, the memories of that evening came flooding back to me and I paused. Émile, who was opening the door, looked stricken. It was the same angle—him at the door and me on the stairs. A dreadful déjà vu overtook me.

If the memories were so bad that I was unable to even walk up the steps to his apartment then I could not go through that door; I could not laugh with this man again, kiss him, certainly not make love to him again. Sadly, I knew it was impossible for me to forgive him.

Émile’s dire condition, however, prodded me on up the stairs, Sylvie in tow. While the color had returned to his face, he was clearly not well. Tentatively, he opened the door and I walked through, Sylvie following. The room was in complete disarray: canvases broken in two, their wooden frames splintered all around the bed; empty and broken liquor bottles littering the floor; records smashed into sharp pieces.

“What on earth—?” Sylvie was so shocked by the state of the place that she grabbed my hand.

“Go, if you cannot bear it.” His tone was sharp. “I will understand, Cecile. I deserve it.”

“You do,” agreed Sylvie. Her heart-shaped face and pursed lips fixated on him.

“Sylvie.” I shot her a look. Never had I seen her so hostile to anyone.

Sensing my disgust with her, she turned and walked out the door, shutting it hard behind her. Next I could hear her heavy steps, and then the door at the foot of the stairs opened then shut.

We were alone.