Since I’ve been married, I find all women beautiful.

Their languid air, their purposeful movements, the turn of a bare arm as it reaches palm-up, the curve of a bare neck as the head tilts back and the blood rushes through. Any arm. Any neck. Even the old women. Oh the old ones! With the laugh lines round their eyes and the wink at the corner of their mouths, the amusement that could spill out bell-like from them at any moment. Even the chubby ones. Oh the chubby ones! Who know how to take their pleasure from this ancient world.

Since I’ve been married, I find all women beautiful.

Someone said that in a film, and my god, it’s so true. Getting married is the surest way to turn every woman who crosses your path into Helen of Troy. They were always there, all around me. I just didn’t notice.

And now it’s too late. The gong has sounded. Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for my sex life.

I’m not that interested in cinema, personally; I prefer to stay home and read. But Florence loves it and she talks to me from time to time about Rohmer, Rivette, Varda. She took me to see Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet, and I didn’t care for it, except for the fact that the actress in it looked just like Florence, dark hair, pale oval face, watchful expression. So I go with her to the movies, to make her happy. And we saw Love in the Afternoon and I thought my heart would explode.

She hasn’t caught on. I’m not stupid enough to tell her.