THE OBSESSIVE FASCINATION

I know what you're going to say, but trust me, I tried. And not just once. I timidly looked at myself several times in the mirror with a detached air, and I pronounced these three words which have the power of striking in the chest: "I leave you." I said them, I assure you. Quite loud even, in the hope that he hears them and accepts them. At 39, it might be about time. He cannot stay to contemplate this grumpy love that turns its back on him. Even an icy gust of wind doesn't dare to make me go towards it.

Have I given him too much? Am I this athlete who thinks he has no more strength at the end of the race? I had them, my quarter of hours of glory, my hours too, where I collected his sweat escaping from our desire combined in a double voice. But, precisely, I wonder: did I get too out of breath in this story? Have I lost my way? How can I find this breath of fresh air that once embraced me?

Stirring up the past is risky; I know that, but I need to understand. Where are our damp sheets, our sticky body, our throat that had only one desire: to jump on the first drop of water!

When he kisses me, I feel like I'm on a ship, but without the beautiful landscape rocked by daydreams. The urge to reject his face with a firm hand comes to me without being able to control myself. Why? And why must there be a why? Why justify this unbearable pleasure felt when your sweet tongue wandered between what I have most faithful, what keeps me company from morning to late at night? Why did I shout seven times without restraint? This breath that I thought buried or even lost in the middle of my existence has returned. It was sweet and strange at the same time. I do not know. I was like a tourist getting off the plane discovering new experiences for the first time.

Yesterday he got home from work early. He was well dressed, and immediately a dangerous thought crossed my mind. I wanted him to tell me something extraordinary, something insane. I believed it by clenching my fists in the hollow of my hips. His real estate agent costume gave him another form of refinement. I thought he was hiding a dark secret from me. I wanted to question him, shake his tie, tear it, yell at him, tell him to reveal to me what he was trying to hide from me. I came home. Believe me. I wish I had done more that night. The motivation was missing, like my questions. Usually, I'm the one questioning, cigarette in hand, spitting my smoke in the other's face and waiting for answers. I didn't have any questions, so I didn't get answers. No wonder.

I felt his scent waltz with a certain glee in the living room, and it held me back. Don't blame me if I failed. I had practiced in front of my mirror. I read that the mirror is a good exercise, a kind of companion who does not criticize, judge, lecture, even when you slip up. But tell me, why did I slip? Paul would appeal to any mother-in-law. Paul is one of those men you can count on when Kleenex is lacking, and the supermarket is double-locked, and the cashier sees you in tears and tells you to wait for it to open the following day. Paul is a man with a delicious character, like a treat that one would eat in secret for fear of being stolen. Paul is .... That's the problem, I think. Paul. Him.

I had thought many times about our beginnings when it was just him and me. The day when, just after using her angelically pallid sheets, we ran like crazy young people through the streets crowded with people with tasteless faces. We had read the sadness on their faces. An almost worrying feeling, it was so blatant. I don't think they understood anything about our happiness. They saw the whiteness of his teeth and the shadow of my dimples but remained cloistered in incomprehension. How could two young people run in the cool dawn without even feeling the cold tickle their nostrils? The pink of cheeks did not come from the coldness of the season but the richness of our emotions. Our love was bursting with power. It was a beautiful, living death. I was not afraid that day. I walked with the ease of a teacher repeating his lesson for the umpteenth time. I think I taunted some passers-by with my happiness at the corner of the lips. I'm ashamed when I think about it. Sometimes I hate myself, or rather I hate my reactions. I am like a cat. I am full of elegance and beauty but I am unpredictable.

You too were unpredictable. Don't blame me for blaming you, that wouldn't be fair. Just admit that I played and got trapped. But tell me, why did I accept this game? What was it going to bring me in the end? Experience the danger?

What is the point ? To see me asking for more? You know, I am starting to ask a thousand questions again and I am waiting for answers that I will not have because you are far away. You took my feverish desire away. But then, how is it possible that I get to feel you near me?

I don't know how to be reasonable. I have to repress myself, put tape on my mouth, maybe soap. I'm afraid Paul will guess my thoughts, even if basically I think that would help matters. Everything would be settled, we would no longer talk about it. All this would never have existed and we could go back?

Departures scare me. I see a comeback, just as I feel my relationship with Paul is getting back into its shell. So why ? Yesterday evening, I put on fine blue lingerie. He loves light blue. I let go of my hair as if to feel wilder, more alert, more connected. Fiasco! The fine lingerie, I took it off immediately after observing myself in the mirror. No, it's not me, I whispered to myself. I can not. It's dishonest and dishonesty would kill me. I don't want to kill myself because I still have things to go through but I feel that what was planned with Paul no longer has room on any page of any stationery calendar. It's scary when I think about it. And when I think of you, it scares me just as much.

Sometimes I tell myself that love is like flowers, it's stunning at the beginning, and over time, this beauty gives way to decadence. Love can sometimes be misleading, and we no longer recognize it. It's like it never existed. I don't know if Paul noticed that his hands were no longer producing the same effect on me, that my body was no longer electrifying at the slightest second.

Sometimes, I tell myself that we should take the time to sit down around a table together, even if it means putting a vase overflowing with fresh roses just like things were at the start of our flame, to encourage us, to tell us that everything can go back but do I want to?

I met Paul at a party. It's a pretty mundane place. I was holding a cocktail in my frail hands, and he shoved me. He still tells me today that it was all a happy accident. Happy because I changed his life. He, too, changed mine. If only my thoughts could enlighten him, put him on the right track. In 'Paul,' I hear a little the softness of the word 'shoulder,' and I find it as comforting as a hot bath when everything is gray and rainy outside and the bus is absent from traffic. Yes, Paul reassures. He is that soft plush that we can hardly take off. So why do I want to run away?

When I met him, I understood. I know it's an awful cliché, but my brain saw clearly. The freshness of this feeling intoxicated me, and I let myself be trapped. Again. Like yesterday. I blame myself like a woman on a diet who sneaked a bite of two croissants on the spot. They gave me extreme satisfaction at the time. I would even ask for a third if my pockets weren't suffering so much, but I have to be sensible myself.

Time is successful. Why not me? Time offers us a palette of colors and emotions, so why should I be inferior to it? I suddenly want to grab a cigarette and get out of the window to watch the passers-by while spreading my smoke because, in my mind, it's foggy. Several options are open to me, and I don't know the rules as I am lost in the game. Damn, I didn't ask to play!

I am stashed behind the kitchen curtains, and I watch the show, and I like what I see. A beautiful woman that beauty has not left by the side of the road. She is wearing a yellow dress. Excess of coquetry? Need to be seen and admired over and over again? It seems like it is working just fine. I see her. She reminds me of femininity, and chills run through down my spine without being able to refrain them. They go too fast for me, just like my thoughts. I find it hard to focus on anything other than this woman. I do not know her. She doesn't see me from the top of the third floor, and yet I spy on her like a teenager would observe a classmate from the corner of his eyes. Shyness gets the best of me. Desire as well. Two feelings come to battle together. I imagine her name is Isabelle.

Isabelle, it's soft, and it's light. If I observe the elegance of his step, I see the lightness in it, that of someone who has left their worries at the office. A wild thought comes to me. Could Isabelle be unfaithful to her man? A small, nothing but mini infidelity of nothing at all. It would be a nice one but quickly forgotten because her man is waiting for her at home. Would she feel guilty like the regrets that gnaw at me? But basically, if I analyze: why have remorse? What are they here for? It was me the day before. I don't think it was a dream. It was my hands that were playing with this new body. I could not have dreamed of a better moment. Or if so, call me an ambulance because dementia at 38 seems inconceivable to me! No, I'm not crazy.

There were your hands too. Your hands are used to stroking other bodies. I am perfectly inexperienced, and I think you noticed. I'm sorry and a little ashamed, but can we take the course of things and turn them to our advantage? I don't like to keep the other person feeling disappointed. No one deserves to experience disillusionment. I was not perfect. My actions were nothing like those of an architect who masters plans well. I felt lost, and, at the same time, I loved to get lost and scream in that pillow. It was as it was waiting for me. Besides, tell me, was it intentional on your part? I felt your will to dominate me, and I think it kept me going. I felt like a prisoner of my wild desires, and at the same time, I loved this prison. Do you think the term "golden prison" comes from there?

Isabelle and her beautiful yellow dress are gone. They walked around the park. She doesn't know that I watched her as she walked down the avenue. She was walking so slowly that I had time to smoke two cigarettes. Bad habit, I know, but for the moment, I have not found a way out. Watch Isabelle gave me courage, but all this is like devouring passion; it only lasts a while. There should be sentimental contracts of indefinite duration. Wouldn't that be nice? With prior notice, too, so the other party could prepare for separation.

This morning Paul left the house early. He told me about a very urgent contract to sign. I let him run away, and a cruel thought came over me. It's embarrassing, but for a split second, I started wishing he didn't come back, that he was stuck for hours signing that damn piece of paper. I did not interview him as I might have done in the past. I didn't care if this great-looking apartment would be for a rentier or a young art history student. I didn't care. It was as if my tongue had disappeared overnight like my feelings. I shudder just at this admission.

It almost slices my throat to tell myself that I do not feel any lack, that I feel relieved in his absence.

Something is wrong, and it gets me confused. My friend Carole collects commitment-phobic, and I'm only good at wiping tears that I can hardly shed myself. Still, I want to cry. I wish to whine just as I could laugh at the absurdity of the situation. I am naked in our marital bed. The word "conjugal" is ill-chosen. Apart from everyday verbs, I don't conjugate much anymore. I am trying my best, but the sheets aren't even cold without him. The worst part is my lack of guilt, but then why not wait for him when she comes out of work, put on a beautiful dress with spring colors. I would make it spin deliciously in a deceptively indecisive way. I know myself. I know my cheekbones would be red from it, but deep down, I'd love it. Get out of this Louise, who has followed me for 38 years. This Louise, whom everyone believes and wants to see as a wise person, without any madness in her. It seems like nobody knows that Louise can drink gallons of vodka, dance on tables in Petit Bateau panties, scream that her life, her real-life has not yet been born, that 38 years old, is just a random number her identity card claims, but Louise, the real Louise is just coming out of her shell.

I have the awful feeling of being a hoax for Paul, my family, and, even worse, myself. I am a real scam, a tourist trap. I promise a lot but offer nothing, and worse, sometimes I take it back. I want to take back the love I gave Paul. I swear I tried to take it back from him this morning before he left for the real estate agency. My words were ready in my head. "I'm leaving you" would have been too violent, and heart attacks can be fatal. I am aware of it! I intended to go for a bit of falsely offered diplomacy-kind of like when you give a lousy gift. You instinctively know the person won't like it, but at least you've fulfilled your part of the job.

9:38 am. He is undoubtedly signing the contract of his life, and I want to escape from our life together. My parents are married, and I tell myself that I did well not to follow their path. What kind of mess would I have gotten myself into? Either way, I'm too free to like contracts. Nobody is allowed to tie me up. I enjoy my freedom way too much. But tell me, why do you refuse to release me? Last night, I thought I felt Paul's hand stroking my back with the delicacy of a teenager who is afraid of going about it the wrong way. I smiled with pleasure because I thought about the softness of your hands. I kept remembering your perfume running under my nostrils. It was a sweet and dangerous cocktail, but it was tasty. I was scared, it's obvious. I don't like to admit my weaknesses, but I have to stop lying to myself.

With Paul, I feel like a kid who would never have got his hands on his textbook but who would have claimed his dog had had a great supper with the homework. But Paul is not my teacher or even my roommate. He's supposed to be my other half. From my feminine readings, I should feel incomplete without him. This is not the case. Paul is a burden. Ouch, it is said. I carry the weight of what I just said, and it hurts my ears. I think I should write him a letter instead.

A nicely written letter. Paul deserves pretty handwriting without spelling mistakes. He is so much into precision and clarity, he could not blame me for the message that this letter would reveal to him. I have to get out of bed, get out of these sheets, which bring me back to his scent. His smell that I can no longer stand. It is incredibly insane when you come to think of this. I sit down at my desk. It is my own little paradise. There are sheets and post-it of heaps of things I need to do that in the end, I never do, but they reassure me.

This office is my cocoon. Recently, I added a red sign: "DO NOT DISTURB." Paul respects my space. He must sincerely believe that I am working, judging by the multitude of colorful pens that sit in front of my computer. My pens seem to be looking at me. An idea reaches my mind. A straightforward one, no doubt stupid, but still, it is an idea. If I wrote this letter with a light blue pen, wouldn't that make the message sweeter? I admit that could mislead him. He loves the color and would be able to feel happy and be all nice to me at the mere sight of a letter written in that color. No. I'll choose a green pen. Green is obvious. It is clear, clean, and precise. Without too much aggression but it is straight to the point. So he will understand what I am driving at. He will realize that my decision has been carefully considered and that my luggage will follow me in my next life.