Authors: Michel Farnac
Then
the
therapist
lifted
the
sheet
and
blanket,
indicating
that
Catherine
was
to
turn
over
just
as
the
music
had
changed
to
Miles
Davis'
Kinda
Blue.
After
adjusting
the
pillow
under
Catherine’s
knees,
she
began
again
with
the
feet
and
continued
the
process
up
to
the
hips,
each
time
carefully
placing
the
covers
so
that
modesty
never
be
compromised.
She
removed
an
arm
from
beneath
the
blanket
and
gently
manipulates
the
fingers,
then
wrist,
up
the
arm
and
into
the
chest
muscles.
And
now
for
the
piece
de
resistance:
the
neck
and
head.
With
her
heavy
head
gently
resting
in
the
strong
hands
of
the
therapist,
Catherine
slowly
felt
herself
letting
go,
inch
by
inch,
approaching
a
loss
of
consciousness
as,
for
a
few
moments,
she
experience
a
sense
of
weightlessness
-‐
absolutely
no
thought
in
her
head.
Slowly
the
therapist
released
her
and
murmured
"Take
your
time".
Left
to
bring
herself
back
into
the
here
and
now,
she
sat
up
and
reached
for
her
clothes.
Standing
before
the
full-‐length
mirror,
she
thought
of
how
she
still
wished
she
could
share
this
moment
with
someone.
This
had
been
a
nice
massage,
but
not
quite
the
pleasure
of
the
firm
and
sensuous
touch
of
the
man
who
had
been
her
masseur
for
nearly
four
years:
Philippe,
a
gay
French
aspiring
ballet
dancer
with
the
most
gorgeous
accent
and
stunning
good
looks.
Unbeknownst
to
her,
he
was
an
illegal
alien
and
immigration
had
apparently
caught
up
with
him,
leading
to
a
hasty
deportation
that
Catherine
had
been
told
about
when
she
had
tried
to
schedule
an
appointment
with
Philippe
a
couple
of
months
ago.
During
the
drive
home
she
pondered
the
sequence
of
events
that
had
been
the
backdrop
of
her
affair
with
Michel,
and
she
still
felt
that
it
would
be
wrong
to
conclude
that
Philippe’s
departure
had
precipitated
her
decision
to
end
things
with
Michel,
though
she
did
feel
in
all
good
conscience
that
the
coincidence
was
at
the
very
least
striking.
What
remained
undeniable
was
the
extent
to
which
Philippe
had
inspired
her
relationship
with
Michel
and
her
explorations
with
him
of
places
she
did
not
know
before.
If
her
Dr
Bentsen
had
opened
the
door,
Philippe
had
shoved
her
through
it,
however
unwittingly,
and
with
a
song
of
all
things,
or
rather
an
odd
twist
on
the
old
Mondegreen.
He
would
lace
the
soundtrack
to
her
massages
with
old
French
torch
songs
and
sentimental
ballads,
many
of
which
she
would
eventually
buy
and
become
fond
of.
Perhaps
the
first
of
these
was
an
old
Gérard
Lenorman
tune,
and
having
heard
it
two
or
three
times
she
had
asked
Philippe
what
the
lyrics
meant,
and
he
proceeded
to
sing
the
song
with
improvised
English
lyrics.
What
she
heard
was
“You,
the
lover
that
I
never
had…”,
and
that
night,
she
‘met’
Michel.
She
would
find
out
several
weeks
later
that
the
true
lyrics
were
“You,
the
brother
that
I
never
had,
do
you
know
if
you
had
lived
what
we
would
have
done
together?”
and
thinking
of
it
still
made
her
laugh
like
a
child
will
laugh
at
the
sudden
appearance
of
a
bunny
in
the
hat.
She
arrived
home
and,
having
a
couple
of
hours
before
her
husband’s
return
home,
poured
herself
a
glass
of
wine
before
making
her
way
to
her
computer.
She
brought
up
her
‘secret’
e-‐mail
account,
re-‐read
a
few
messages,
then
typed…
This
is
it.
My
last
message.
I
realized
yesterday
that
I
have
arrived
at
my
destination,
and
that
this
glorious
adventure
of
ours
must
now
come
to
an
end.
Why
now,
you
might
ask,
but
I
don’t
have
an
answer.
Obviously
I
have
been
ready
for
a
time,
but
it
is
only
now
that
I
feel
it
fully.
Ready
to
resume
the
quiet
course
of
my
life
without
longing
or
unsatisfied
lust.
So
what
is
it
that
you
gave
me
that
I
could
not
get
without
you?
In
an
odd
way
nothing
that
I
did
not
already
have,
I
suppose,
but
I
needed
you
to
see
that.
I
have
been
and
am
still
a
desirable
woman,
desired
in
fact.
I
have
been
praised
and
receive
praise
still.
Wife,
mother,
friend,
confidant,
lover
even,
I
have
been
all
of
these,
but
in
a
way,
never
on
my
terms,
always
in
relationship
to
the
desires
and
expectations
of
others.
So
there
we
have
it,
I
guess.
I
needed
to
find
out
who
I
am,
who
would
come
out
if
it
were
on
my
terms.
It
was
glorious,
and
now
I
know.
Or
at
least
I
know
a
lot
more
than
I
did
before.
I
know
about
France
and
so
many
other
places
that
I
never
knew
I
was
so
fascinated
by.
Who
knew
that
New
York
was
so
full
of
‘frenchness’?
Well,
admitting
that
I
didn’t
does
say
a
bit
about
how
sheltered
I
had
become.
I’m
at
the
point
now
where
I
have
had
to
tone
it
down
and
not
jump
up
whenever
I
see
a
reference
to
anything
French
lest
it
arouse
suspicion.
You
were
the
perfect
lover
according
to
Catherine,
and
from
the
beginning
you
were
full
of
surprises.
All
the
desires
I
needed
quenched,
all
the
fears
I
needed
quelled,
so
many
things
surfaced
for
you
to
mirror
back
to
me.
I
suppose
that
the
first
real
surprise
was
when
I
wrote
back,
though
maybe
that’s
not
really
how
it
happened.
I
wrote
to
you
with
no
expectation
of
a
response,
on
a
whim,
or
not,
but
more
as
an
imaginary
pen
pal,
one
who
would
not
criticize
my
ramblings
nor
analyze
them
like
Michael
Bentsen.
I
wrote
a
few
messages
and
thought
you
would
disappear,
but
when
I
read
them
back
a
few
days
later
I
was
surprised
at
the
intensity
and
I
started
wondering
what
a
man
could
answer
to
such
things,
and
as
a
game,
I
inserted
some
reactions
into
one
of
the
messages.
And
then
I
sent
it
to
myself.
And
when
I
read
it,
it
sent
chills
down
my
back.
To
be
honest,
I
thought
about
breaking
it
off
more
than
once
over
the
last
four
years.
There
were
some
really
difficult
times,
times
when
you
were
taking
up
way
too
much
room
in
my
life.
There
were
times
when
I
really
struggled
with
your
very
existence
and
what
it
meant
in
terms
of
my
sanity.
Does
calling
it
a
fantasy
excuse
what
would
otherwise
have
to
be
seen
as
irrational
behavior?
I
would
feel
like
the
lonely
voice
in
‘Asylum’
yelling
out
‘it’s
just
a
game
I
play
for
fun’.
Not
that
I
ever
felt
that
I
was
crazy
or
that
it
was
crazy
to
have
you
in
my
life,
but
like
with
most
affairs,
the
price
of
being
caught
would
have
been
great.
What
would
people
think
if
they
found
out
that
I
was
writing
to
myself,
leaving
phone
messages
to
myself…
I
admit
that
I
created
you
to
find
out
what
it
would
be
like
to
be
whisked
away
to
a
harem,
and
it
was
a
great
feeling.
It
is
Ash
Wednesday
and
I
have
no
plans
to
anoint
my
forehead
with
ashes
(although
I
am
wearing
black
today!).
I
have
come
a
long
way
from
the
devout
Catholic
girl
of
the
past.
I
find
myself
moving
more
and
more
away
from
the
repression
of
my
upbringing
-‐
and
it
feels
damn
good.
I
feel
some
pain
at
letting
you
vanish
from
my
life,
at
losing
my
imaginary
friend,
but
no
sense
of
regret.
There
will
never
be
any
other
men
in
my
life.
I
am
blessed
to
have
a
husband
whom
I
love
and
who
loves
me.
While
it
is
true
that
I
have
transgressed,
I
have
never
caused
him
pain
or
harm
in
my
wanderings.
The
road
was
long
and
there
were
bumps
and
bruises,
but
you
have
healed
so
many
of
them,
my
French
lover,
that
I
feel
whole
now
as
I
never
had
before.
You
showed
me
that
there
is
nothing
that
I
could
have
been
that
I
am
not.
I
am
woman.
Adieu
Catherine”
Just
as
she
hit
the
send
button
she
heard
the
sound
of
her
husband’s
car
pulling
up
into
the
driveway
and
a
smile
came
to
her
lips
as
she
sipped
the
last
of
her
glass
of
wine.
Tomorrow
she
would
delete
the
secret
e-‐mail
account
and
all
the
messages
therein
but
for
now
she
just
shut
down
her
computer
and
went
down
to
meet
her
husband
with
a
large
smile
and
a
certain
swing
of
the
hips
as
she
walked
that
would
immediately
let
him
know
what
she
had
in
mind.
She
was
struck
upon
seeing
him
at
how
handsome
he
still
was
and
she
felt
her
pulse
quicken.
He
was
maybe
no
Michel
but
had
been
and
was
a
wonderful
husband,
a
wonderful
father
to
the
beautiful
children
he
had
given
her.
He
was
a
man
who
loved
her
and
desired
her.
He
was
a
man
she
knew
how
to
give
pleasure
to
and
tonight
she
would.