Chapter 7 — The Other Shore

Éric

I knew it would happen.

I knew it from the moment I left her, five days earlier, still trembling, still marked by her. It wasn't a flight, nor a deliverance. It was only a reprieve.

Since then, everything has lost its taste.

Coffee.

Conversations, Clara's skin.

Even the daylight.

I wandered through my daily life like a ghost, promising myself I would hold on. But I was already lying. I was lying to everyone. Especially to myself.

And last night, I cracked.

Two words sent without thinking:

"Where are you?"

The answer fell like a guillotine blade.

"Still within reach of a mistake."

Then an address.

A discreet hotel, almost hidden in an anonymous alley, two metro stops from my place.

Room 608.

I didn't reply.

I didn't confirm.

And yet, tonight, I'm here.

In front of this door.

My hand suspended.

My breath suspended.

The world suspended.

I knock. Once. Twice.

And the door opens.

She didn't ask any questions.

More beautiful than in my memories.

But it's not her beauty that overwhelms me.

It's her calm.

She's there, standing, in that man's shirt that's too large probably mine, stolen from a memory or a fantasy and she says nothing. Not right away. She looks at me. Her eyes pierce me. I'm naked before her, even fully dressed.

— I told you you'd come back.

She doesn't smile. She doesn't need to.

Everything about her is invitation. Challenge. Premonition.

I step forward.

She steps back.

I close the door.

The world stops.

It's warm. Not because of the heating. But because of her.

The air is saturated with her. Her musky perfume. Her scent of soft sweat. Of waiting.

She sits on the bed, one leg folded, the other dangling slowly. She doesn't take her eyes off me. She is the opposite of Clara. She doesn't reassure. She disturbs. She disrupts. She embraces me without arms, just with a look.

— Were you afraid I'd forget you?

— I haven't stopped thinking about you.

She nods, indifferent.

— Is your wife aware?

— No.

— She knows anyway. Women always sense.

— I know.

I approach. Too fast.

She reaches out her hand. Grabs my belt.

Just that.

One gesture.

One tension.

I freeze. She doesn't undo anything. She's not trying to undress me.

She imposes. She waits for me to yield.

— What do you want, Éric?

— You.

— No. You want oblivion. You want to collapse. You want to be dirtied. You want someone to tear off your skin to see what's underneath.

And she's right.

She sees clearly. In me. Through me.

I fall to my knees before her. She slightly spreads her legs. Her hands slip into my hair, then down my neck, over my shoulders. She lifts me up with a soft, authoritative gesture.

I stand. And it's she who comes towards me.

This time, it's she who kisses me first. Slowly. Deeply.

Her mouth takes mine. She swallows me like a hunger held back too long. Her tongue probes, explores, defies. Her kiss is not a caress. It's a possession.

My hands find her hips. Her back. Her nape. I cling to her like a castaway to his wave.

She pushes me onto the bed.

I fall, panting.

She climbs on top of me, a supple, feline movement. Her thighs wrap around my hips. The shirt slips. She's naked underneath. Her skin burns me. My heart pounds so hard I'm afraid she'll hear it.

She whispers to me:

— Let me make you forget.

And she does.

Slowly. Wildly.

She rides me like a vengeance. She takes me like a war. Her hands scratch me. Her teeth bite me. Her hips dance, arch, curve. She undulates. She strikes. She gives. She demands.

I am hers. Entirely.

When I finally lose myself in her, when I feel her tremble, convulse, pant against my mouth, I let myself fall inside, without filter, without barrier. I explode. I yield. I dissolve.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel… alive.

Not happy.

Not proud.

But alive.

We stay lying down, tangled. Her head on my chest. My arm around her hips.

She murmurs, after a long silence:

— Are you thinking about her?

I take a few seconds to answer.

— Clara?

— Yes. Clara.

I close my eyes.

— Less than before.

I feel her smile against my skin. A smile that cuts. That understands too much.

She sits up slightly, rests her chin on my chest.

— Do you think it's her you're betraying?

— That's the case.

— No. It's yourself you're abandoning.

I don't answer.

She gets up, naked, natural. Sublime.

She walks towards the bathroom, without throwing me a single glance. As if I were acquired. As if this body she had just consumed were only a tool, a passage, an ordinary offering.

I stay there, on the bed, naked too, skin marked, throat dry, heart in pieces.

And I understand.

Tonight, it's no longer an affair.

It's a choice.

Not a lapse.

A voluntary, deliberate betrayal.

An abandonment of what I was.

And of what I loved.

Clara is at home.

Maybe she's watching the time.

Maybe she already guesses.

Maybe she's still waiting.

But me, I'm here.

And for the first time,

I no longer want to go home.