Opportunity, n. A favorable occasion for grasping a disappointment. (A.
Bierce, ibid, p. 94)
"Care for a beer anyway, nobody around. You can always have a little chat with poor old me." "Yes, that's a good idea, poor old Georges that you are." Chuckle chuckle. We spend some time talking, no customers to interrupt tonight. End up, in spite of me, revealing situation with Marcel.
"You know, I've always thought there was something." "Well, I don't know if there is. I mean, I think, I know he loves me, but there's something funny about this. I have a feeling..." "Feelings. Ah, sometimes we ought to listen to this sixth sense." Words of good old Georges strike me as menacing. Feeling of doom suddenly befalls my soul, fast conclusion, he doesn't love me. "Georges, tell me, do you think Marcel loves me?" "Sure he loves you, what a question, besides you talked to him, didn't you?" His honest eyes tell me I didn't really talk to Marcel, I took a lot for granted. "You didn't. You thought he said something like that, you jumped to conclusions, and here you are, pure deluded soul. Here, drink some more beer." Willingly, swallow the liquid that is already loosening my tongue. Who cares, I don't need Marcel. I'm being unfair, we've been good friends, no reason for stopping it now. It's all my fault. Back to your boudoir, lady! "Tell me, does he fool around often? I mean, I've never seen with other women, other than the group." "This is none of my business, you should ask him... I wouldn't put my hopes to high, though." "Marcel, he's so sweet and so good to me, he's like a brother. You're right, I'll forget about it. I don't think I'll talk to him about this, he'd think I'm a fool. He's so sensitive, he might feel responsible, he might love me not to hurt my feelings." Georges' moonface donates a ironic smile which suggests my naivete, fall into sorrowful silence.
Pierre arrives and breaks my silence. "Hello Madeleine. Mind if I join you? What's the matter?" Shake my head, make effort to smile, poor Pierre, it's not his fault. "The trip was great, do you want to hear about it?" Shake head again. "Boy, aren't you in a sour mood. Alright, I get it, you're pissed we went without you. I'm sorry, we tried to reach you, but you are always so busy, you have always so many engagements, we thought you'd be fine. Still angry?" "I'm not angry. I don't mind, actually, I'm glad I didn't come. I would have made a fool out of myself. In fact, I think you can cross me out of your mailing list." Pierre, now concerned, looks at Georges through thick lenses. Georges, on his turn, shakes his big head, reproachfully. "Ah, girls. So complicated. Marcel, Marcel is really good with women, I wish I could handle them as well as he does." Zip my face up, glimpse Georges' darker and more menacing eyes directed at Pierre. "Hey, what did I say? It's true, isn't it, sensitive like him, he understands women perfectly and knows how to comfort them." My Marcel a womanizer? My Marcel attractive to prostitutes?
"What kind of women?" Good Pierre gets the point. "Aha, you're interested? Well, some were easier than others, some were bright, some were not. Pretty women, that's for sure. You didn't know? He's got a reputation for getting the prettiest girls, and then breaking up a week later, or the next day." "You mean he's a flake?" "No, he never chose the right woman. Most of the times, it was just for fun, on both sides. I'm just saying he can take it, whatever you are going to give him." All of a sudden I feel I'm flooded with love, desire and wish he were here. Maybe I'm a bit too drunk for feeling lucidly, but I sure miss him and wish I had thrown myself into his arms yesterday. No problem, I can wait. Tomorrow will be a great day, I know.
Skip back home, lighthearted, a bit sore for other women equal rivals. If I don't take the opportunity now, he'll be gone. More deserving women, more attractive bimbos will take him away. Under the door I find a folded sheet, a letter, Marcel's signature.
"Therese,
it is very unfortunate that you should not see how urgent and important it is for me to have your love. I shall not, as you fear, ever leave you. As someone else once said, 'I'd rather suffer with you on my side, than be happy without having never met you.' I'm afraid I might have hurt your dignity and your sense of independence. Forgive me, my dear, it is only because you arouse such vigorous feelings of passion in this humble servant. I'm going with Pierre, Marguerite, Philippe and the others to Neuilly. It is a pity I won't see you tomorrow. I'll take extensive notes so I can more faithfully report to you.
Such insistence, dear dear Marcel. Yet, such insistence almost too suspicious. Why me? Why keep calling me Therese? Attractive sexy features of "dear Marcel" appear to be giving way to more ordinary, almost annoying resemblance to insignificant men, men we don't love. The need for passion mastered in total abnegation, passion which he can provide limitlessly. Will he call me, will I call him? Why not prolong this pleasant limboid state of our relationship? The benefits of the friendship enhanced by the consciousness of the sexual game we can play without hurting each other.
Paul proves to be only slightly angry, which was caused by his being rather disappointed at being left alone at the party, and overall rightfully irritated at me. I try, as best as I can, to explain what happened and why I left him at the party, alone. I bring up the fact that I lost him and got lost myself in the confusion; once I realized how really late it was, I decided to come back to the hotel directly, as I suspected him to be back already. I tell him that I was and still am very sorry about the whole matter, but it just happened, and that's that. He takes it rather well, and after a while we are back together, like nothing happened, laughing, tickling each other, and end up making love, which I enjoy a lot, not only for his stamina (which has often entertained me no end), but also for all the internal tension built up in the course of more recent events. As I come, unlawful image of Jean's face joins forces with overpowering, unfulfilled desire of him, converging into physical pleasure.