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Enjoy your freedom
A glance at my watch shows me that it is 8:37 a.m. What precision! That is at least one thing I had in common with Paul. This consideration for detail and clarity. It is still early, and I feel good in the almost deserted streets. I believe in a possible second life for me. I want to believe in it, and I tell myself that at 38, everything can be rebuilt. We destroy houses to make them more beautiful. I, too, am entitled to it. I want to break with this old life. I end up making a long list of desires: dancing salsa half-naked, drinking hot chocolate in an Egyptian pyramid, making love in the ruins of a castle, sleeping in a field of flowers, bathing in a frozen Swedish lake …
I love my freedom, and thanks to it, I start planning simple things. I begin to think about what I would like to do in the future now that I no longer feel doomed. I'm ashamed. It bothers me to speak like a former inmate. It's so unfair to Paul. He's probably asleep at this hour, or he's dreaming of bot
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I folded up the letter and hesitated for a long time before wrapping it. This colorful envelope would have been a bit like giving a present with a friendly smile. A gift, even poorly chosen, gives pleasure, brings a little joy because we always tell ourselves that it is the intention that counts, that the person has thought of us. Yes, I thought of Paul, but this letter is not a present. This letter will undoubtedly give a taste of bitterness in his mouth as if he had a drunk whole salty ocean. He is going to choke on the bottle of wine. I can already feel it coming. And about me? I will remain like a tiny mouse, unaware of all my actions. The pen wrote, my hand just went with the flow—this perfect cowardice which characterizes me in all ingenuity. I reread my letter calmly. Shutters were closed. I didn't want any distraction from the outside, no noise, no smile that would taunt me when I have just crushed my heart on a pi
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