“Having homosexual relations cannot be considered a sign of mental instability in this day and age. Neither can writing books.” The expert psychiatrist's report has come through. In April, nine months after the judge gave him six months to deliver it. That sentence was either in the introduction or the conclusion, I don't remember. The doctor deemed it necessary for an expert, a psychiatrist, to clarify this point, just in case there was any doubt in anyone's mind, Laurent's, the judges’, five years after gay marriage was legalized. The law is the law, but if you look closer, it's falling apart at the seams. Apparently at the school, the school in the 6th district of Paris, there are parents who've said I'm sick. And hardly any of my family speaks to me anymore, apart from my dad, dearest papa, even if it wasn't easy at first.

My goal is to have as little as possible. Things, places, people, lovers, my son, my friends. I thought that was partly what being gay was about. I thought dykes would be as cool as fags, always inventing new things. I was thinking of Edwige Belmore, Kathy Acker, Dorothy Allison, Nathalie Barney, even Beth Ditto. But I've been a victim of marketing. The girls I meet want an apartment, a dog, kids, they're in for a disappointment when they meet me. Son of a Bitch, it's written across my stomach, you find out as soon as you sleep with me, those are the terms of sale, honey. I've already done the whole mom and dad thing. Mom and mom is just as much of a drag. I have nothing against it, I'm not saying there's anything wrong with it, people can do whatever they want, whatever they're capable of, but personally it's not something I can do right now. As for being in a couple, I'm still in the ICU. Sometimes I can't take any more of these girls. Wanting to hold hands, talking about their jobs, asking if we can go away for a weekend, a little holiday, to a nice restaurant. So what do you propose? They ask me. Nothing. Sometimes I hate them. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother sleeping with them. Half the time I'm not even that into them. A fuck is a fuck. People who fuck a lot aren't doing it for fun. I feel like a teenager in front of a PlayStation, giving myself brain damage from playing too much Call of Duty, a teenager that might just end up hanging himself in his room, killing half his class, or, just as likely, doing nothing at all. I wish I could've been a fag.

The train leaves from Montparnasse in an hour. I've actually bought tickets, for once. It's May, the weather isn't great. I went swimming early, when the pool opened, to help me stay calm if anything goes wrong. I've been very careful not to get too excited. It was Paul who asked to go to Montlouis for a weekend. It's been almost a year and a half since we last spent a whole day together, since we last saw each other without an audience. Two years since he last saw my dad. They get on well. Paul always says, Isn't it funny how much I look like Grandpa? The association transmitted Paul's request, expressed in their presence during his hour with me, then reiterated in my absence, and Laurent finally said OK, seeing as he'd refused three times under various pretexts and was beginning, I think, to look like a moron. But then, one hour before we're supposed to leave, he calls me. He says Paul doesn't want to go anymore. He says he tried to insist but there's nothing he can do. He suggests we meet in a cafe, I accept. I tell myself it's a good sign, this cafe thing. Maybe he'll end up giving in. Not today, of course, but soon. This crusade of his must be exhausting. We haven't seen each other since the hearing. We haven't spoken normally to each other for a thousand years. We spent twenty years together, that's the first thing I see when he arrives, the past. He does too, I think. I can see he still loves me even though he hates me. We both say hi. He still wears the same clothes, loafers that cost a thousand euros, jeans a little on the tight side, those blue tailored shirts he has twenty of, the only thing he wears, and an old jacket, also tailored. Pretty chic in an uptight kind of way. He's losing his hair, he's gray in the face, tight-lipped. I guess he must be thinking about how I've aged, too, even though since I left him I've never felt younger. He says I smell good, asks me what perfume I'm wearing, how I am, whether I'm still swimming. Then without missing a beat he says I'm making no effort to resolve the situation. He says he has his sources. Then he says that Paul is doing really well, that he's getting excellent grades at school, that everything's been going well in his life since I left. The bells of Saint-Sulpice ring, then he says, All of us will wind up there in the end, anyway. That day, after I left him, as I was walking to the station to take the train alone, I thought about how everyone crosses paths with the devil at least once in life, because you have to experience evil, just like you have to experience love, desire, sadness. But the devil isn't a red monster with a fork in his hand, he's familiar, the most familiar thing of all, the devil doesn't have to be that frightening, he's as tall as me but not always as strong, a lost soul, a wretch. It's Paul I'm crying for.

When I couldn't get him to come with me, I'd go to the police to file a report. It was my lawyer who told me to do that, even though after doing it ten times I couldn't really see the point. I'd wait for hours. I'd waste my whole Saturday. The police were no strangers to this kind of situation. Often, the guy taking my statement would stop typing and tell me his own story. It was always the same. I'm starting to get used to it. We're one big family, those of us who walk out and end up losing our kids. They don't tell me everything's going to be OK. They know. That's something I realized recently. The cop in front of me is telling me that the justice system kills families. He says there comes a point where it's just too late, childhood goes by so fast.