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 only after a long pause that he shifted his eyes to look at me. He made no other movement, and I saw now something I hadn’t before: his expression was not just grim, it was bleak.
“So,” he said. “You are sleeping with Orestes now.”
I said nothing.
“It is like in the parking lot, then? He did not know about what happened after he left, but he told me about his time with you, and in the showers.”
“Told you?” I repeated.