meeting, a dinner?
And how many nights had they even spent together? Twenty, maybe? Fifteen? Barely. Cyril, like most Members of the European Parliament, was only in Brussels a few days a week. The rest of the time he was either traveling or at home, connecting with the voters of his Parisian constituency.
When they’d started seeing each other a couple of months ago that had suited Klara perfectly. She hadn’t wanted more. Cyril was exciting. Intelligent. And the charge between them was transformative. It made her weak and unstable, alternately inferior and dominant. And she could tell it affected him too. His tight grip on her arms, her neck. His fingers in her hair as he pressed her down against the mattress and entered her from behind. She could still taste him on her lips, in her mouth. This was passion, wonderful, burning desire. But it wasn’t tenderness, not real intimacy. And it had been unexpectedly liberating. No demands, no history, just brief, intoxicating moments outside of time.
So it surprised her when Cyril turned over and looked at her for a long time without saying anything. His gaze was dark, and slightly ironic. She met his eyes hesitantly, suddenly embarrassed, and shared the silence.
‘Why don’t you have any pictures of your family?’ he said. ‘I’ve been here several times a week over the last few months, and I still don’t know anything about you. Well, I know a few things about you.’
He pulled the covers up over his hips, as if suddenly becoming aware of his own nakedness.
‘We talk about the parliament, the world. Food. But I know almost nothing about you . Your family. Your home. And it struck me, you don’t have any pictures of them either. Expats always have pictures of their family on display. But not you. Why not?’
His voice, the gentle French accent, the American vocabulary. Had he studied in the United States? She turned her eyes away from him and lay on her back, staring straight up at the sloping ceiling above her bed, concentrating on her breathing.
She didn’t feel ready for this. Not ready to break their unspoken pact, their casual agreement. At the same time, she wanted nothing more than to reveal her background and history to Cyril piece by piece, while he did the same. But she needed time to get used to the idea. It couldn’t happen like this, without warning, without time to adjust.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it. I guess I’m not that into pictures.’
She swung her feet down onto the cool wooden floor and sat up, with her back to Cyril.
‘That’s bullshit!’ he said. ‘Everybody needs pictures of their family.’
Couldn’t he just wait a little, let her get used to the idea? Let her catch her breath and catch up with him.
‘Can’t you tell me something about yourself? Do you have siblings? What do your parents do? Anything.’
She turned toward him. Allowed her eyes to show a gleam of irritation.
‘I don’t have any siblings,’ she said as she awkwardly pulled on a maroon T-shirt with london school of economics printed across the chest. She put her barely shoulder-length dark hair up in a sloppy ponytail.
‘Only child.’
She picked up her phone from the nightstand. Checked the time.
‘Come on! I have a meeting in half an hour. We need to get moving.’
She smiled sheepishly and rather unconvincingly at Cyril and pointed toward the narrow staircase that led from her minimal bedroom down to the living room of her little attic apartment.
‘It makes you uncomfortable!’ he said.
He threw out his arms, as if he’d finally made her admit something she’d long denied. The satisfaction of the gesture only made her more unwilling to continue the discussion.
‘What?’ she said.
Was this really what he wanted?
‘Do you mean that it makes me uncomfortable to talk about my family? Okay, sure, it makes me uncomfortable to talk about family. Is that enough? Are you satisfied with that answer?’
She pinned him
And how many nights had they even spent together? Twenty, maybe? Fifteen? Barely. Cyril, like most Members of the European Parliament, was only in Brussels a few days a week. The rest of the time he was either traveling or at home, connecting with the voters of his Parisian constituency.
When they’d started seeing each other a couple of months ago that had suited Klara perfectly. She hadn’t wanted more. Cyril was exciting. Intelligent. And the charge between them was transformative. It made her weak and unstable, alternately inferior and dominant. And she could tell it affected him too. His tight grip on her arms, her neck. His fingers in her hair as he pressed her down against the mattress and entered her from behind. She could still taste him on her lips, in her mouth. This was passion, wonderful, burning desire. But it wasn’t tenderness, not real intimacy. And it had been unexpectedly liberating. No demands, no history, just brief, intoxicating moments outside of time.
So it surprised her when Cyril turned over and looked at her for a long time without saying anything. His gaze was dark, and slightly ironic. She met his eyes hesitantly, suddenly embarrassed, and shared the silence.
‘Why don’t you have any pictures of your family?’ he said. ‘I’ve been here several times a week over the last few months, and I still don’t know anything about you. Well, I know a few things about you.’
He pulled the covers up over his hips, as if suddenly becoming aware of his own nakedness.
‘We talk about the parliament, the world. Food. But I know almost nothing about you . Your family. Your home. And it struck me, you don’t have any pictures of them either. Expats always have pictures of their family on display. But not you. Why not?’
His voice, the gentle French accent, the American vocabulary. Had he studied in the United States? She turned her eyes away from him and lay on her back, staring straight up at the sloping ceiling above her bed, concentrating on her breathing.
She didn’t feel ready for this. Not ready to break their unspoken pact, their casual agreement. At the same time, she wanted nothing more than to reveal her background and history to Cyril piece by piece, while he did the same. But she needed time to get used to the idea. It couldn’t happen like this, without warning, without time to adjust.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it. I guess I’m not that into pictures.’
She swung her feet down onto the cool wooden floor and sat up, with her back to Cyril.
‘That’s bullshit!’ he said. ‘Everybody needs pictures of their family.’
Couldn’t he just wait a little, let her get used to the idea? Let her catch her breath and catch up with him.
‘Can’t you tell me something about yourself? Do you have siblings? What do your parents do? Anything.’
She turned toward him. Allowed her eyes to show a gleam of irritation.
‘I don’t have any siblings,’ she said as she awkwardly pulled on a maroon T-shirt with london school of economics printed across the chest. She put her barely shoulder-length dark hair up in a sloppy ponytail.
‘Only child.’
She picked up her phone from the nightstand. Checked the time.
‘Come on! I have a meeting in half an hour. We need to get moving.’
She smiled sheepishly and rather unconvincingly at Cyril and pointed toward the narrow staircase that led from her minimal bedroom down to the living room of her little attic apartment.
‘It makes you uncomfortable!’ he said.
He threw out his arms, as if he’d finally made her admit something she’d long denied. The satisfaction of the gesture only made her more unwilling to continue the discussion.
‘What?’ she said.
Was this really what he wanted?
‘Do you mean that it makes me uncomfortable to talk about my family? Okay, sure, it makes me uncomfortable to talk about family. Is that enough? Are you satisfied with that answer?’
She pinned him
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