I got up the following morning thinking about Anatole again, about seeing him—either visiting him at the hospital or seeing him if he came home today. I didn’t have a phone in my suite, so I went upstairs, carefully closing the door behind me.
Anatole was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, a cup of coffee before him on the table, his face unusually grim, his eyes unfocused. Worst of all, he didn’t look up when I entered the room, though he was facing in my direction.
Then it hit me: I had cheated on him with Orestes.
My stomach knotted at the thought, the possibility that Anatole knew. I sank rather than sat into the chair opposite him, and looked at his face.
“Y-you’re okay, then?” I said at last, but my voice was a bit uncertain.
There was no response from Anatole at first. It was o
