Authors: Michel Farnac
“Ah,
I
suppose
that’s
true,
but
it
is
a
little
hard
to
fathom.
I
suppose
that
the
issue
here
is
the
definition
of
sex.
I
suppose
that
the
girl
wants
to
have
sex
with
the
guy,
whereas
the
guy
wants
to
have
sex.”
“But
in
the
end,
do
you
choose?
No,
you
try.
And
then
things
happen…”
“Yes,
things
happen…”
“So
what’s
your
type?”
“Not
too
tall,
black
curly
hair,
glasses…”
“Well,
that’s
not
me
and
I’m
sure
that’s
not
your
husband
either.”
“True…”
came
her
reply
after
an
uncomfortable
silence.
“I’ve
gone
too
far,
I’m
sorry.
I
guess
the
point
I
wanted
to
make
was
that
the
myth
of
the
male
is
different
in
France
from
what
it
is
here.
Here
the
Hollywood
obsession
is
about
defining
who
you
are.
I’m
cool,
I
could
have
been
a
contender,
I’m
the
best…
Maybe
in
France
it’s
more
about
what
you
do.
Who
you
are
is
less
of
an
issue.
The
French
version
would
have
Marlon
say
‘I
could
have
contended’.
Strength
comes
from
choice
more
than
constitution.
To
think
otherwise
seems
almost
like
a
refusal
to
grow
up
by
still
clinging
to
the
myths
of
childhood
that
you
can
be
anything
you
want
to
be.
It’s
a
lie,
but
a
lie
we
want
to
believe.
To
me,
the
pursuit
of
happiness
is
not
about
trying
to
be
something
that
you
are
not.
You
are
what
you
are,
and
that
does
not
guarantee
happiness.
The
pursuit
of
pleasure
is
a
valid
path
to
happiness,
in
my
mind,
but
it
is
not
a
means
of
becoming
something
else,
quite
on
the
contrary:
it
is
an
affirmation
of
who
I
am.
“
“Then
that
is
a
shame,
but
probably
not
something
that
will
go
away.
Mind
you,
that
is
not
your
case.
You
are
not
happy
with
where
you
are
at,
which
is
not
the
same.
I
think
that
you
are
quite
happy
with
whom
you
are
but
that
you
are
not
getting
out
of
life
all
that
you
want.
The
same
is
true
of
me
and
that
is
why
we
found
each
other.”
“It’s
that
simple?”
“No,
maybe
not.”
“It
sounds
as
though
you
are
trying
to
distance
yourself.”
“From
what?”
“From
me?”
she
said
hesitantly.
Michel
assured
her
that
this
was
not
the
case,
but
they
left
things
at
a
standstill
at
the
end
of
the
conversation.
Their
reactions
following
the
call
assumed
what
had
now
already
emerged
as
a
pattern
between
them.
Having
stumbled
upon
a
rock
on
the
road,
his
reaction
was
to
pick
it
up,
look
at
it
and
try
to
remove
it
from
their
way.
She
on
the
other
hand
was
left
with
little
more
than
doubt
and
confusion.
They
were
both
left
to
try
to
understand
what
Michel
had
said,
but
she
was
under
the
assumption
that
he
knew
the
implications
of
his
own
words,
and
he
did
not
realize
that.
Indeed,
Catherine
was
a
bit
baffled
by
the
exchange:
what
point
was
Michel
trying
to
make
in
saying
that
they
were
not
each
other’s
type?
This
felt
like
a
prelude
to
a
dump
to
her
and
an
ominous
warning.
Furthermore,
what
could
it
mean
for
him
to
assert
that
she
had
not
chosen
her
husband?
Did
Michel
think
she
was
a
floozy
who
went
with
the
first
man
who
wanted
to
bed
her?
While
she
could
make
an
effort
to
convince
herself
that
this
was
not
the
case,
the
question
still
posed
itself
starkly.
This
ran
into
a
theme
that
had
over
the
years
come
to
occupy
a
more
prominent
position
in
her
meandering
thoughts
than
she
was
comfortable
with:
can
you
really
know
someone?
Though
in
all
fairness
she
made
no
formal
gender
distinctions
when
confronted
with
this
quandary,
it
was
a
thought
that
she
applied
only
to
men,
specifically
to
the
men
in
her
life.
The
first
instance
of
this
had
truly
come
to
the
fore
many
years
before,
after
the
birth
of
her
first
child.
Of
course,
begetting
is
life-‐
changing
in
many
ways,
and
in
fact
must
alter
one’s
weltanschauung,
but
she
had
then
been
seized
with
deep
moments
if
uncertainty
when
confronted
with
her
husband’s
behaviors
and
reactions
to
some
events
surrounding
their
daughter’s
budding
life.
It
was
then
that
for
the
first
time
she
had
lost
sleep
over
the
question,
lying
in
bed
next
to
a
man
she
had
married
and
wracked
with
fear
and
doubt
wondering
if
she
really
knew
him.
Over
the
years,
this
had
subsided
into
a
lingering
but
distant
question
as
she
had
regained
faith
in
the
stability
of
her
husband’s
motivations
in
life
and
assurance
of
his
love
both
for
her
and
their
children.
She
had
easily
dismissed
the
intensity
of
the
early
feelings
as
a
mere
side-‐effect
of
the
birth
of
her
daughter
and
of
the
tremendous
psychological
changes
(growth)
that
had
occurred
at
that
time,
and
had
never
really
come
to
grips
with
the
thought.
Now
she
was
suddenly
confronted
with
its
resurgence.
The
next
day,
she
was
quite
shocked
to
not
find
an
email
from
Michel
in
her
inbox,
so
much
so
that
she
found
herself
quite
angry
and
had
to
pause
and
ask
herself
why.
She
found
that
she
had
been
fully
expecting
a
long
humble
and
perhaps
even
contrite
apology
from
him
for
the
affront
she
had
received.
With
this
realization,
her
anger
subsided
as
she
examined
why
she
had
felt
their
exchange
was
an
affront
to
her.
Nothing
he
had
said
had
been
false
or
even
meant
to
hurt.
As
always,
it
was
his
darned
honesty
that
had
gotten
in
the
way
of
a
perfectly
good
conversation.
It
was
in
a
rather
unnerving
state
of
confusion
that
she
went
to
have
high
tea
with
an
old
friend.
She
and
Liz
had
gone
to
high-‐school
together,
though
at
the
time
neither
would
have
called
the
other
a
friend:
their
relationship
then
had
been
based
more
on
tension,
jealousy
and
resentment
than
amity.
It
was
technology
that
had
brought
them
back
together
after
many
years
of
estrangement,
one
of
those
sites
where
old
schoolmates
can
find
each
other.
What
had
started
as
timid
contact,
made
by
both
to
look
like
a
fortuitous
happenstance,
had
slowly
turned
into
a
vibrant
friendship
as
they
found
how
similar
their
outlook
on
their
past
shared
experience
were,
and
for
about
three
years
now
they
made
it
a
point
to
have
lunch
together
at
least
once
a
month.
Liz
immediately
felt
how
troubled
Catherine
was
but
gave
her
the
room
to
bring
it
up
at
her
own
pace,
as
she
eventually
did.
Liz
was
stuck
in
a
childless
and
less
than
passionate
marriage
with
a
man
she
did
not
dislike
enough
to
leave,
and
while
it
could
not
be
said
that
she
had
vicarious
penchants,
the
stories
Catherine
spun
were
exhilarating
to
her,
and
she
had
grown
rather
fond
of
Michel
which
could
explain
why
she
felt
the
need
to
rush
to
his
defense.
She
listened
attentively
as
Catherine
recounted
what
she
remembered
of
her
last
phone
call
with
Michel,
how
he
had
said
that
they
were
not
each
other’s
type,
the
distinction
he
was
trying
to
make
between
what
one
is
and
what
one
does.
And
then
she
charged.
“Forest
Gump
said
the
same
thing,
you
know.”
“What
is
that
supposed
to
mean?”
“Remember?
‘Stupid
is
as
Stupid
does’?
That’s
what
this
is!
Look,
your
Michel
doesn’t
want
to
be
thought
of
as
an
adulterer.
To
him,
there’s
a
difference
between
stealing
and
being
a
thief.
And
if
you
ask
me,
I
would
tend
to
agree.
I
mean,
look
at
you!
This
is
your
second
affair,
but
do
you
think
of
yourself
as
an
adulteress?
Is
this
who
you
are?
No!
You’re
happily
married
and
you’re
having
an
affair
but
that
doesn’t
mean
that
you
are
a
slut
or
deserve
a
scarlet
A
on
your
chest.”