Jogging towards the rue de Rivoli, all I can think of is the way my arse sways when I run. I donât have to check, but I know that Monsieur will be watching me until Iâm round the first corner.
âYouâre beautiful,â he texts me, two minutes later.
MONSIEUR
Your letter . . . like a hand grenade with the pin pulled out.
ELLIE
I think you donât fully understand the problem I have with the nerve in my leg. Let me explain it again, because I think it might be serious and you might have to operate on me. These are the symptoms: the moment you start speaking to me, my right leg goes limp and heavy, as if I was turning into a slug. The same thing happens every time I think of you, wherever I might be. At some critical stage, the numbness rises from my thigh to my arse and I lose all sense of decency. Every movement I make arouses me even more. Even walking becomes a form of foreplay. Iâm not really that bothered, but if Iâm not alone, itâs embarrassing. Almost as if I had an orgasm every time I yawned, a bit indecent.
I donât know the name of this particular nerve, but I think you should shed some light on my problem. I have no wish to become a female oyster: they spend their days gobbling the sperm of male oysters as it floats in the sea. Filthy whores each and every one of them . . .
Still, letâs not worry too much about this as Iâve discovered thereâs a seminar on Tuesday morning to discuss the nerves in my thigh. A rather short but useful seminar. I have no objection to being experimented on, as long as the right treatment is found and Iâm provided with some relief. As I write, Iâve become almost incapable of moving my leg.
Also, as you donât appear to have received my message about what I did between the sixteenth and seventeenth hour of yesterday, I must insist on the Titanic aspects of my evening orgasm. Iâm lucky Iâve never been caught doing it by my parents, but it would have been humiliating had they rushed into my room that evening on some flimsy pretext. As it is, even with a normal, mediocre orgasm itâs difficult enough to keep a straight face and a clear conscience and tell Mum, âNoooooo, I donât know where your Hermès wrap is. Just leave me alone!â Anyway, I think I usually manage to look almost decent â my eyes donât go white or my ears crimson. However, on this occasion, I almost swooned.
And there you go, talking about swoons at the clinic. I sure was red in the face after that.
I still havenât solved the case of the strange scratch marks that appear on my back every time I see you. I was thinking about guilty stigmatas, but thatâs not possible as I have no sense of guilt. I feel as if Iâm untouchable. For the last two days Iâve been on fire.
All of this to say itâs imperative I see you on Tuesday. And when we speak on the phone, I have no wish to hear the word âmaybeâ again.
So, Iâm off to bed.
So, Iâm going to touch myself.
So, I will think of you.
So, I hope I didnât bother you this morning.
And that there was no camera in the lift.
And tell them they need an even more decrepit lift, so it takes even longer to climb through the floors.
See you tomorrow.
Ellie
MONSIEUR
I miss you.
Sweet nothings exchanged with Monsieur on the phone at eight in the morning while Iâm still buried beneath my duvet.
âDid you write a bit yesterday?â
âNot really. Just thoughtless scribbling,â I confessed, annoyed and ashamed.
âYou must write!â Monsieur stormed.
âI know, I know . . .â
âSeriously, Ellie. You know what you should write about?â
âNo.â
âWrite about us. Our story.â
âEh? What could I write about us?â
âI donât know! Youâre the writer! When I read all your old mails, itâs like reading a novel. Write a novel about us!â
I
âYouâre beautiful,â he texts me, two minutes later.
MONSIEUR
Your letter . . . like a hand grenade with the pin pulled out.
ELLIE
I think you donât fully understand the problem I have with the nerve in my leg. Let me explain it again, because I think it might be serious and you might have to operate on me. These are the symptoms: the moment you start speaking to me, my right leg goes limp and heavy, as if I was turning into a slug. The same thing happens every time I think of you, wherever I might be. At some critical stage, the numbness rises from my thigh to my arse and I lose all sense of decency. Every movement I make arouses me even more. Even walking becomes a form of foreplay. Iâm not really that bothered, but if Iâm not alone, itâs embarrassing. Almost as if I had an orgasm every time I yawned, a bit indecent.
I donât know the name of this particular nerve, but I think you should shed some light on my problem. I have no wish to become a female oyster: they spend their days gobbling the sperm of male oysters as it floats in the sea. Filthy whores each and every one of them . . .
Still, letâs not worry too much about this as Iâve discovered thereâs a seminar on Tuesday morning to discuss the nerves in my thigh. A rather short but useful seminar. I have no objection to being experimented on, as long as the right treatment is found and Iâm provided with some relief. As I write, Iâve become almost incapable of moving my leg.
Also, as you donât appear to have received my message about what I did between the sixteenth and seventeenth hour of yesterday, I must insist on the Titanic aspects of my evening orgasm. Iâm lucky Iâve never been caught doing it by my parents, but it would have been humiliating had they rushed into my room that evening on some flimsy pretext. As it is, even with a normal, mediocre orgasm itâs difficult enough to keep a straight face and a clear conscience and tell Mum, âNoooooo, I donât know where your Hermès wrap is. Just leave me alone!â Anyway, I think I usually manage to look almost decent â my eyes donât go white or my ears crimson. However, on this occasion, I almost swooned.
And there you go, talking about swoons at the clinic. I sure was red in the face after that.
I still havenât solved the case of the strange scratch marks that appear on my back every time I see you. I was thinking about guilty stigmatas, but thatâs not possible as I have no sense of guilt. I feel as if Iâm untouchable. For the last two days Iâve been on fire.
All of this to say itâs imperative I see you on Tuesday. And when we speak on the phone, I have no wish to hear the word âmaybeâ again.
So, Iâm off to bed.
So, Iâm going to touch myself.
So, I will think of you.
So, I hope I didnât bother you this morning.
And that there was no camera in the lift.
And tell them they need an even more decrepit lift, so it takes even longer to climb through the floors.
See you tomorrow.
Ellie
MONSIEUR
I miss you.
Sweet nothings exchanged with Monsieur on the phone at eight in the morning while Iâm still buried beneath my duvet.
âDid you write a bit yesterday?â
âNot really. Just thoughtless scribbling,â I confessed, annoyed and ashamed.
âYou must write!â Monsieur stormed.
âI know, I know . . .â
âSeriously, Ellie. You know what you should write about?â
âNo.â
âWrite about us. Our story.â
âEh? What could I write about us?â
âI donât know! Youâre the writer! When I read all your old mails, itâs like reading a novel. Write a novel about us!â
I
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