Authors: Michel Farnac
Dare
I
hope
that
you
will
not
hate
me?
Yours
truly,
always…
Michel”
As
he
promised,
he
checked
his
account
one
last
time
and
found
her
last
reply.
“Leave
me
if
you
must,
I
hate
you
not.
Yours
still
Catherine”
And
Michel
wept
as
Titus
perhaps
once
had.
The
first
emotion
after
making
the
decision
was
a
great
sense
of
relief
and
this
surprised
Catherine
quite
a
bit.
She’d
gotten
up
in
a
good
mood,
as
she
had
the
last
few
days.
After
her
husband
had
left
she’d
lazily
gone
up
to
the
room
to
finish
her
coffee
and
surf
the
news
sites
as
was
her
habit
before
leaving
for
work
herself
a
few
minutes
later,
and
now
she
wondered
as
she
had
for
the
last
three
days
if
she
would
write
an
e-‐mail,
deciding
once
again
not
to.
But
just
as
she
was
going
to
get
ready
to
leave,
a
simple
question
came
to
her
mind
and
the
lack
of
an
immediate
response
was
like
a
jolt
to
her,
followed
by
an
epiphany-‐like
sensation
and
then…
relief.
Simply
put,
she
didn’t
know
who’s
turn
it
was
and
when
the
thought
formed
that
maybe
it
was
nobody’s
turn,
in
the
blink
of
an
eye
it
was
over,
and
she
was
smiling
as
she
walked
out
the
door.
“It’s
my
turn”
she
thought
to
herself
as
she
got
in
the
bus,
“one
last
time.”
These
three
words
echoed
in
her
mind
all
during
the
bus
ride
and
by
the
time
she
got
off
and
walked
the
block
and
a
half
to
her
office
she
knew
that
tomorrow
would
be
the
first
day
of
a
changed
life,
one
more
simple,
less
encumbered.
Her
day
had
an
odd
configuration
as
she
was
taking
the
afternoon
off
from
work
to
compensate
for
having
aided
her
boss
in
hosting
an
event
at
city
hall
the
previous
Sunday,
and
she
had
scheduled
for
the
afternoon
an
appointment
with
her
therapist
followed
by
a
massage,
something
she
indulged
in
perhaps
once
a
month.
The
massage
had
marked
the
starting
point
and
the
endpoint
of
her
affair
but
as
striking
as
that
may
seem,
if
there
was
any
meaning
in
this,
anything
beyond
a
pure
coincidence,
then
she
failed
to
discern
it.
The
morning
went
well
and
the
now
apparent
success
of
the
event
she
had
hosted
earned
her
some
collateral
compliments
from
her
boss
which
she
handled
with
grace,
however
unaccustomed
she
may
have
been
to
such
circumstances.
By
the
time
she
left
the
office
she
was
very
relaxed
and
happy,
feeling
very
much
alive,
feeling
as
if
a
quest
had
ended
in
success
with
a
prize
worthy
of
the
risks
involved.
This
must
be
akin,
she
thought,
to
the
feeling
a
con
artist
would
get
after
pulling
off
her
final
caper,
now
finally
having
enough
to
lead
a
straight
life,
the
joyous
end
to
a
long
chapter.
For
indeed
Catherine
knew
that
there
would
be
no
more
men
in
her
life,
no
more
affairs
and
that
this
final
story
in
its
own
way
had
fulfilled
her,
made
her
whole,
given
her
that
little
je
ne
sais
quoi
she
had
been
longing
for.
What
was
that
Heart
lyric
again?
Oh
yes…
“And
what
he
couldn’t
give
me
was
the
one
little
thing
that
you
can”.
A
spark,
a
flame,
passion,
lust…
what
had
it
been?
She
wasn’t
sure
and
in
a
way
it
did
not
really
matter
anymore
if
it
ever
had,
since
the
result
alone
was
what
truly
mattered:
she
no
longer
felt
that
she
had
missed
something
or
that
something
was
missing
from
her
life,
and
having
put
her
finger
on
it
she
now
understood
the
feeling
of
relief.
She
had
a
light
salad
for
lunch
and
headed
to
her
appointment
with
her
therapist.
To
say
that
the
affair
had
changed
her
would
somehow
imply
that
there
had
been
something
passive
about
her
participation
in
it
which
would
be
laughable,
but
among
the
things
that
she
had
learned
was
that
she
no
longer
felt
a
need
for
everything
to
have
a
reason,
a
justification
that
could
be
rationalized
into
a
convincing
argument
if
need
be,
and
this
left
her
free
to
ponder
her
actions
and
their
origins
without
a
burden
of
proof
concerning
her
motivations.
This
newfound
serendipity
allowed
her
to
feel
good
about
where
she
was,
to
be
very
much
alive.
Tracing
the
familiar
steps
to
Dr.
Bentsen’s
office,
it
felt
to
her
as
if
knowing
that
this
was
the
last
time
made
everything
look
new
and
different,
the
narrow
lobby
and
its
rickety
elevator,
the
musty
hallway
leading
to
the
office.
He
sat
as
always
at
the
small
desk
in
the
antechamber,
writing
what
she
had
always
assumed
were
notes
on
the
previous
occupant
of
the
couch,
and
remarked
after
a
warm
greeting
on
how
well
she
looked
today,
but
as
he
began
to
usher
her
to
the
office
itself,
she
went
no
further
and
smiled.
“I
guess
I
wasn’t
fully
aware
of
the
progress
that
you
were
making.”
“I’ve
come
a
long
way
over
the
last
four
years,
Dr
Bentsen.”
“No,
not
at
all.
In
fact
it’s
fairly
rare,
but
with
you
I
somehow
felt
that
it
was
appropriate.
You
came
here
for
answers,
not
help,
and
that
is
not
the
most
usual
circumstance,
so
I
thought
that
a
certain
rapprochement
could
allow
us
to
delve
more
substantively
into
the
issues
that
concerned
you,
perhaps
putting
us
side-‐by-‐
side
rather
than
face-‐to-‐face.
Did
you
feel
that
this
was
coercive
on
my
part?”
“Not
at
all.
It
just
felt
more
natural
to
me
to
address
you
with
a
title.
Always
the
Catholic
girl,
full
of
respect
for
authority
figures.”
She
chatted
with
him
another
few
minutes
before
a
warm
goodbye,
and
decided
in
the
end
not
to
tell
him
about
Michel.
It
was
Dr.
Bentsen
who
had
said
that
having
a
constructive
dialog
with
an
inner
voice
was
not
to
be
mistaken
for
having
multiple
personalities,
and
in
so
doing
he
had
created
the
conditions
for
her
affair,
yet
she
never
had
told
him
about
it:
Michel
had
been
hers
alone.
She’d
thought
about
telling
him
a
couple
of
times
at
least,
of
course,
but
never
did,
too
busy
living
the
dream,
too
lazy
to
explain
its
convoluted
premise,
its
complex
technological
meanderings,
its
irrational
constructs…
And
she
clearly
had
never
cared
about
what
the
good
doctor
would
have
to
say
about
it.
She
headed
to
the
spa
where
her
massage
was
scheduled,
very
much
looking
forward
to
an
hour
of
pampering
and
relaxation,
just
enough
to
prepare
for
the
final
task
ahead:
writing
one
last
message
to
Michel.
She
was
led
to
the
dimly
lit
room
and
took
off
her
clothes,
transitioning
from
mental
to
physical
therapy,
as
it
were.
She
lay
face
down
on
the
table,
relaxing
into
the
heated
pad
that
was
beneath
her
body,
the
heaviness
of
a
sheet
and
blanket
covering
her.
The
therapist
knocked
lightly
and
greeted
Catherine
as
she
entered.
The
quiet
strains
of
Asian
music
encouraged
Catherine
to
breath
deeply
and
let
herself
relax
a
little
more.
She
felt
the
heated
herbal
pack
being
gently
placed
on
her
lower
back,
one
of
the
areas
where
she
often
held
tension.
The
sound
of
the
pump
which
releases
lotion
into
the
therapist’s
hands
was
soon
followed
by
a
firm
and
gentle
caress
on
the
soles
of
her
feet,
moving
downward
to
the
toes,
then
a
slow
knead
of
the
calf
muscles
and
somehow
perpetually
tight
hamstrings.
First
one
side
and
then
the
other.
Each
time
the
therapist
moved
to
a
new
spot,
she
would
carefully
unveil
it
beneath
sheet
and
blanket
and
cover
the
area
she
had
just
completed.
Her
hands
move
to
the
left
buttock
and
lower
back
and
Catherine
began
to
sink
a
little
deeper
into
the
table.
She
felt
fingers
treading
along
her
spine
and
ribcage
toward
the
shoulders.