At the time, I wanted my life to take shape. I wanted it to transform into something durable, firm. Like clay that dries and becomes less and less malleable, I, too, wanted to dry and harden. I was twenty-two years old and starting to grow impatient.
But to the adulterous lovers, to those who love each other from a distance, and to those who are no longer loved, I would like to say that love has never been a question of uncertainty or waiting, that regularity and reciprocity do not alter intensity. I would like to tell them that passion can also grow from domestic stability, from consistently punctual returns home, from the proof of commitment, from the repetition of daily life. I would like to tell them that the heart can also beat at set times.
During the meal, Nicolas keeps calling my husband by a childhood nickname that only Nicolas uses. This version of my husband that I don’t recognize is unsettling to me. I am even more unsettled when Nicolas tells me something I didn’t know about my husband. The idea that Nicolas knew him during a time when I hadn’t yet met him makes me slightly dizzy. More generally, the idea that my husband existed before meeting me is surreal, even revolting.