The next day he messages me, Yesterday was nice what are you doing tonight? I thought we'd settled things but maybe he's thought about it and wants to talk some more. We've hardly seen each other in three years, I liked it just fine that way. But I agree to meet him, I tell myself I probably owe him that much. He comes to pick me up outside my house in a taxi, it looks like he's made an effort, he's made reservations at a restaurant in another district, a fairly chic place in the courtyard of an hôtel particulier. He talks to the waiters like a regular, he orders a good wine like a connoisseur, he acts like some guy trying to impress his girlfriend. Maybe this is what he does now with girls, maybe he wants to show me, try out his techniques. He wanted to meet but he's not saying anything, he's not asking any questions, not a word about yesterday, nothing about him or me, we talk about holidays, foreign countries, books we've read, as though we're politely humoring each other on a date that's not going anywhere. He wants us to walk home together, I make sure there's enough space between our bodies, not too close, not too far, as if everything were normal. The Marais, the Seine, Notre-Dame, we're like a Chinese couple on honeymoon. Once again he walks me right to my door, once again he wants to come up with me, to kiss me, once again he seems surprised when I say no.