Adultery

I CAN’T honestly say that I feel victorious, but at least I’ve recovered some self-control. At home, everything carries on as usual; before I was in a terrible state, and now I’m feeling better. No one asks me how I am.

I’m going to follow Jacob König’s example and talk to my husband about my strange state of mind. I’ll confide in him, and I’m sure he’ll be able to help me.

On the other hand, I feel so good today; why spoil it by confessing to things I don’t even understand myself? I continue to struggle. I don’t believe that what I’m going through can be put down to a lack of chemical elements in my body, as I’ve read online about “compulsive sadness.”

I’m not sad today. It’s just one of those phases we all go through. I remember when my high-school class organized its farewell party; we laughed for two hours and then, at the end, we all sobbed because we knew we were parting forever. The sadness lasted for a few days or weeks, I can’t quite remember. But the mere fact that I don’t remember says something very important: it’s over. Turning thirty was hard, and perhaps I just wasn’t ready for it.

My husband goes upstairs to put the children to bed. I pour myself a glass of wine and go out into the garden.

It’s still windy. It’s a wind we know well here; it can blow for three, six, or even nine days. In France—a more romantic country than Switzerland—it’s known as the mistral and it always brings bright, cold weather. It’s high time these clouds went away. Tomorrow it will be sunny.

I keep thinking about the conversation in the park, that kiss. I feel no regrets at all. I did something I’d never done before, and that in itself has begun to break down the walls imprisoning me.

It doesn’t really matter what Jacob König thinks. I can’t spend my life trying to please other people.

I finish my glass of wine and refill it, and for the first time in many months, I feel something other than apathy or a sense of futility.

My husband comes downstairs dressed for a party and asks how long it will take me to get ready. I’d forgotten that we’d agreed to go dancing tonight.

I race upstairs, and when I come back down, I see that our Filipino babysitter has arrived and has already spread her books across the living-room table. The children are in bed asleep and shouldn’t be any trouble, and so she uses her time to study. She seems to have an aversion to television.

We’re ready to leave. I’ve put on my best dress, even at the risk of dressing to the nines for a laid-back party. What does it matter? I need to celebrate.