her parents in the window she would have run to them and promised to never ever get lost again.”
“You think that’s it? She doesn’t go home again?”
“It’s not clear. Maybe she does. Maybe she doesn’t.”
“I think that’s a terrifying story,” Nico says.
“There you go. Vive la différence. ”
“Between boys and girls?”
“Between a nice young Frenchman with blue eyes and a crazed American woman.”
Nico reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
“You’re not crazy.”
“And that’s another thing. I need a haircut,” Josie says.
“Perhaps we can do that.” His fingers linger briefly in her hair.
“All in one day?” Josie asks.
“And you thought I was a mere French tutor.”
Josie sees Nico’s mischievous glance and notices how young he looks. There are no creases in the corners of his eyes. She has spent so many months looking into Simon’s eyes.
“I made up that story,” Josie tells him. “There is no book. There never was.”
Nico smiles. “Perhaps you’re not crazy, but you’re very creative.”
“I think the little girl never goes home. I think she finds the guard and asks him to take her home with him.”
“That might be dangerous.”
“But he’s a very nice man. He owns three dogs, all of them bigger than the little girl. They live together in his tiny apartment on the top of a hill in Montmartre.”
“What about her parents?”
“You’re so responsible,” Josie complains.
“I would miss my little girl,” Nico says.
“Of course you would.” She remembers that Nico has a child somewhere in Morocco, a child he’s never seen. She thinks of Nico as a child, lost in the root cellar, his parents searching for him. This is a man looking to be found, she thinks.
Simon stroked her back. They were sprawled in bed, post-sex, pre-sex, all of their time together a blur of sex. They were in San Francisco, at yet a different hotel. Simon saw someone he knew at the Clift and Josie had to pretend she was a stranger, asking directions to a club. “Sorry,” he told her, the friend in earshot. “I can’t tell you anything about clubs in this city. I’m an old man. Why don’t you ask the concierge?” Later Simon told her that the friend had said, “That girl is hot,” and Simon had said, “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” the man had said. “You’re the last married man in America.”
Simon had informed his wife about a series of Saturday meetings—he’d invented a nonprofit group that needed his expert help. He’d told his admin not to schedule anything for him at the end of the day on Friday because he needed to get back to San Rafael for a project he was working on with Brady. He was lying to everyone, and he did it with such ease that Josie thought he must be lying to her as well.
“How do you know this is love,” she asked, “rather than love of sex?”
He ran his tongue up the line of her spine.
She rolled over and faced him. “You said you loved me.”
“I do.”
“Maybe you just love sex with me.”
“I do.”
“Why is it that now that I have love, I’m immediately scared of losing love?”
“You think too much. Stop thinking.”
“When we make love I stop thinking.”
“Then let’s make love. It’s been too long.”
“Does this—does sex—matter more than anything else? Does it matter more than raising kids and having dinner parties and going to Cabo on vacation?”
“I wish I could do all of that with you.”
“But you can’t.”
“You wouldn’t even want it, Josie. You’re twenty-seven years old.”
“I don’t know.”
“Please. Come here.”
“I’m right here.”
“Come closer.”
“Did you have this with your wife?”
“Don’t.”
“I’ve never had this before.”
“I know, Josie. I’ve never had it before either.”
“But you trust it? You can tuck it inside of you and take it home with you?”
“We have to. There’s no other
“You think that’s it? She doesn’t go home again?”
“It’s not clear. Maybe she does. Maybe she doesn’t.”
“I think that’s a terrifying story,” Nico says.
“There you go. Vive la différence. ”
“Between boys and girls?”
“Between a nice young Frenchman with blue eyes and a crazed American woman.”
Nico reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
“You’re not crazy.”
“And that’s another thing. I need a haircut,” Josie says.
“Perhaps we can do that.” His fingers linger briefly in her hair.
“All in one day?” Josie asks.
“And you thought I was a mere French tutor.”
Josie sees Nico’s mischievous glance and notices how young he looks. There are no creases in the corners of his eyes. She has spent so many months looking into Simon’s eyes.
“I made up that story,” Josie tells him. “There is no book. There never was.”
Nico smiles. “Perhaps you’re not crazy, but you’re very creative.”
“I think the little girl never goes home. I think she finds the guard and asks him to take her home with him.”
“That might be dangerous.”
“But he’s a very nice man. He owns three dogs, all of them bigger than the little girl. They live together in his tiny apartment on the top of a hill in Montmartre.”
“What about her parents?”
“You’re so responsible,” Josie complains.
“I would miss my little girl,” Nico says.
“Of course you would.” She remembers that Nico has a child somewhere in Morocco, a child he’s never seen. She thinks of Nico as a child, lost in the root cellar, his parents searching for him. This is a man looking to be found, she thinks.
Simon stroked her back. They were sprawled in bed, post-sex, pre-sex, all of their time together a blur of sex. They were in San Francisco, at yet a different hotel. Simon saw someone he knew at the Clift and Josie had to pretend she was a stranger, asking directions to a club. “Sorry,” he told her, the friend in earshot. “I can’t tell you anything about clubs in this city. I’m an old man. Why don’t you ask the concierge?” Later Simon told her that the friend had said, “That girl is hot,” and Simon had said, “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” the man had said. “You’re the last married man in America.”
Simon had informed his wife about a series of Saturday meetings—he’d invented a nonprofit group that needed his expert help. He’d told his admin not to schedule anything for him at the end of the day on Friday because he needed to get back to San Rafael for a project he was working on with Brady. He was lying to everyone, and he did it with such ease that Josie thought he must be lying to her as well.
“How do you know this is love,” she asked, “rather than love of sex?”
He ran his tongue up the line of her spine.
She rolled over and faced him. “You said you loved me.”
“I do.”
“Maybe you just love sex with me.”
“I do.”
“Why is it that now that I have love, I’m immediately scared of losing love?”
“You think too much. Stop thinking.”
“When we make love I stop thinking.”
“Then let’s make love. It’s been too long.”
“Does this—does sex—matter more than anything else? Does it matter more than raising kids and having dinner parties and going to Cabo on vacation?”
“I wish I could do all of that with you.”
“But you can’t.”
“You wouldn’t even want it, Josie. You’re twenty-seven years old.”
“I don’t know.”
“Please. Come here.”
“I’m right here.”
“Come closer.”
“Did you have this with your wife?”
“Don’t.”
“I’ve never had this before.”
“I know, Josie. I’ve never had it before either.”
“But you trust it? You can tuck it inside of you and take it home with you?”
“We have to. There’s no other
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