“Pessimistic.” I shoved my hands in my trouser pockets, standing before the curled-up woman.
She continued to write, though it was in French, so not very helpful in deciphering her current state of mind.
“Is there something I can do?” I offered.
“No.”
“You want something, or else you wouldn’t be pouting.”
“I want many things.”
“Name one.”
Her diary snapped shut. “I want to not be repulsive.”
“Repulsive? Are you referring to your attitude as of late?” I teased, but I caught a sharp twitch of her lip, then I noticed the light dappling her waterline—tears.
“Why else would my husband avoid me until he is forced to talk to me?”
“Is that right?”
“You tease me. Constantly. Leading me on. Pretending to be interested, only to leave me sitting with my palms open and not a crumb given.”
“What do you mean?”
She raised her voice. “You know exactly what I mean!”
“I promise you, I don’t.”
“The fruit, the touching, the attention—” She gulped. “You can’t even go all the way!”
“I see my efforts aremostappreciated.”
“You are a horrid rake, and you know it!” She stood from her seat, but I snatched her wrists.
“A rake?”
“Let me go.”
“Where is this coming from?”
“Nowhere. It comes fromyou! You insufferable tease!”
“Petre.” I searched her face for some indication of drunkenness, but there were no cups or wine in sight. She was drunk on insecurity fermented by her own delusions. “Tell me”—I spoke steadily—“why do you think you disgust me?”
“Because you won’t . . .”
“Won’t what? Tell me when.”
“Our wedding night, you—”
“You were drunk.”
“And when we were right there on the couch—”
“Barely conscious.”
“But then the fruit—”
