After rushing home from Jean-Pierre's cottage Saturday night,
Matthew had noticed neither her absence nor her return. He had
been in his office the whole time, and was still working when she
went to bed, where she spent several restless hours alone.
Finally, unable to lie still, she had gotten up and sat gazing
out the window, across the pond, to the cottage. A few times she
had actually considered going back to him, but she told herself
that maybe Matthew would come to bed. Her imagination had
ultimately forced her back to the welcoming pillows, and in a few
moments Jean-Pierre had magically come to her, by way of her own
sleight of hand, stroking her, yes, like that, then sweetness,
and finally she was satisfied, and then sad, and then guilty. She
had cried herself to sleep. A few hours later she was awakened by
Matthew rustling with his jogging things and again, a little
later, by the shower. She had pretended to be asleep while he
dressed and packed for his trip to New York. She had heard the
gate bell, indicating the arrival of the limousine that would
take him to San Francisco International Airport. She waited, half
expecting at any moment to smell his clean scent wafting near, a
light kiss on her cheek. But there came no scent, no kiss. Just
more of the same indifference, more hurt.
She had slept until noon, then gone downstairs, in her robe, and
eaten the remainder of last night's dinner for lunch.
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