in time to see him grab his jacket off the rack in the entryway, and slam the front door.
“Where’d Daddy go?” Moira asked, unfazed, as always, by her mother’s tears.
“Business trip.”
Gabriel
On his way to Colette’s house, Gabriel walked through the Passy Cemetery, a setting befitting his mood. The weather, however, was not cooperating. There was pale, cool sunshine and a light breeze, clouds passing quickly overhead, grouping and regrouping, forming interesting shapes. Maybe he could convince Colette to go to the park instead of somewhere fancy for dinner with her friends who spoke so quickly Gabriel had trouble following the conversation.
He had sensed that she was annoyed at him being in her apartment. She had begun to nag him to straighten up after himself, to do the dishes every once in a while. They had gotten into an argument, and Gabriel stormed off back to his apartment, where his roommates reintroduced themselves as a joke. Colette didn’t return his calls for two days, even though he apologized profusely. Then a third day went by, and Gabriel began to worry, spinning fantasies of a crashed cab, a fatal illness, or, worse, that she’d met someone whose future might be brighter than his.
Finally he’d reached her on the fourth day and she sounded glad to hear from him. She accepted his apology and said yes to meeting up with him that afternoon. He felt oddly insecure about their relationship. He didn’t want to examine what made him feel worried that she would dump him. Or, rather, that he would feel horrible when she dumped him. He was already feeling twinges of the humiliation, sadness, and self-loathing he would experience when it ended. Because it had to end. She was way out of his league. Beautiful, successful, popular, and, most important, French. She had the unattainable command of the French language and customs that he would never, ever master. She floated in and out of rooms, stores, parties, gliding through barely cracked doorways with wit and popularity, while he stomped into barriers, fumbling and clumsy.
What if he broke it off before she could? Might that work? He was starting to scare himself. He rang her buzzer and waited. There was no response. He rang again. Nothing. Maybe she was late. He checked his phone. He texted her. After fifteen minutes he went to the corner and ordered a coffee, which he drank standing at the bar and looking at her front door.
She arrived an hour and a half after they’d planned to meet. Colette didn’t even look around as she let herself in. Gabriel waited exactly five minutes. He ran through various fantasies in which he confronted her about her tardiness, her complete disregard for him or his time. In that scenario she apologized and confessed that she did it because she wanted him to break up with her; she loved him too much. Or, rather, she admitted to being purposely late so that he’d get fed up and dump her, saving her the trouble. In yet another reverie, he imagined her opening the door full of remorse, apologizing for the métro construction. Gabriel decided to say nothing to her and see if she would bring it up.
“Hey you.” She gave him a passionless kiss; she had been eating cheese. Then she hugged him, grabbing her elbows around his back. “So, skinny. Don’t you eat? Oh, sorry I’m late.”
Colette didn’t offer any further explanation. Gabriel swallowed a lump.
“Let’s pretend we never fought. Want to go see a film tonight? There’s a Billy Wilder retrospective at Action Christine.”
“Again?” Gabriel never understood why the French liked seeing old movies in the theater when you could watch them on DVD just as easily in your house, for ten euros less.
“You’ll get to spend time with me in the dark,” she said suggestively.
“Fine,” he agreed. He excused himself to the bathroom.
Once inside the tiny water closet, looking at the white tile above the toilet, dick in hand, Gabriel had a moment of self-pity, which he excused as clarity. Everything in his life started out full of promise, and it all petered out before it could be properly enjoyed. And why? Because Gabriel was always the wrong person. The right things happened, but they should not have happened to him. All these opportunities: the École, his mediocre solo show, his relationship with Colette, were doomed to expire because he was the object of them. This thought was comforting; it wasn’t his fault. It wouldn’t be his fault.
He pulled