Now he thinks of the space exposed by her open blouse, that blush of skin, the heat he feels when his eyes dip into the hollow of her neck.During last night’s argument, while he and Dana walked along Paris-Plage, too late for the last métro, too drunk for safe conversation, he said, “I need quiet. Your life is too noisy.”Did he mean that? Where did that come from? Had four days with Chantal—long, leisurely days of conversation—led to this clamoring in his mind?In the middle of sloppy, drunken, angry sex, the kind of sex he and Dana never had, the kind that left them raw and panting, Dana had asked, “Are you leaving me?”“No,” he assured her. “No. I love you. I’ll always love you.”And now this: Chantal standing in front of him at the entrance of the métro station, her hair slipping out of its barrette so that wavy tendrils trace the lines of her long neck. Her sideways glance at him, as if to say, I know you now. I know something’s up. Her smell. He fell asleep last night imagining the smell of jasmine and green tea, some heady mix that he yearns for as he leans toward Chantal now, kissing her on both cheeks, no handshake today.
