YOU WANTED to be alone, Madeleine says.
Rather than answer, the photographer embraces her, and for one or two minutes it feels fairly wonderful. Her nose sunk in his shirt, his arms around her; her breathing, without permission, falling in step with his own. Ahhhhhhh, she thinks, words leaving her. Ahhhhhhhh. There is only weight, warmth, covers, breath. Far down below, their feet touch.
But after one or two minutes have passed, the embrace becomes intolerable. Madeleine believes that she will die, that if she can't escape the arm, or kick her feet out from beneath the covers, she will surely, quickly, quietly die. She feels the panic of the dying: a swarming on her skin; a series of soft explosions coming closer; the difficulty of finding her next breath.
So she twitches, lets out a sigh; she acts as if sleep has come to take her. He relinquishes her then, he delivers her up. The parting is easier this way. And he curls over on his other side, tucking his hands beneath his cheek.
She is not sleepy in the least. She wants only the coldest part of the bed and slides to the far edge in search of it. But as soon as she arrives, she misses him. She would like to eat him up, if possible, or else be eaten up herself. If she were to kiss every part of his body, it would not be enough. She could gnaw at the back of his neck, suck on his fingers, cup his nose in the warm cave of her mouth and it would not suffice. To smother herself in his nice-smelling shirt, allowing his weight to extinguish her last breath, would still leave her wanting him. And he is not even the one she loves.
She cannot tell which is more strange: enjoying his closeness, or thinking she might die, or suffering this sad bout of appetite.