Platform by Michel Houellebecq

no apparent reason, some slight rise in temperature, a breath of wind. If they did I would be carried with them, dragged hundreds of meters onto the rocky ridges below, and I would die, probably on impact. Despite this, I wasn't in the least afraid. I was annoyed that things had turned out this way, annoyed for myself and for everyone else. I would have preferred a more conventional death, more official in a way, with an illness, a funeral, tears. Most of all, I regretted never having known a wife's body. During the winter months, my father rented out the first floor of his house, and that year, the tenants were a couple of architects. Their daughter, Sylvie, was also fourteen. She seemed to be attracted to me, or at least she did her best to have me around. She was slender, graceful, her hair was black and curly. Was her pubic hair black and curly too? These were the thoughts that flitted through my mind as I plodded across the mountainside. I've often wondered about that, since. Faced with danger, even death, I don't feel anything in particular, no rush of adrenaline. I had searched in vain for the sensations that attract "extreme sports" fanatics. I am not remotely brave —I run away from danger if at all possible—but if push comes to shove, I greet it with the placidity of a cow. There's probably no point in searching for meaning in this, it's just a technical matter, a question of hormone levels; other human beings, apparently similar to me, seem to feel nothing in the presence of a woman's body, something that—at fourteen and still now —plunges me into a state of agitation I can't control. In most circumstances in my life, I have had about as much freedom as has a vacuum cleaner.

    The sun was beginning to get hot. I noticed that Babette and Léa had arrived on the beach; they had settled themselves about ten meters away from me. Today, they were topless and dressed simply, identically, in white thongs. Apparently they'd met some boys, but I didn't think they were going to sleep with them. The guys weren't bad, reasonably muscular, but not that great either—all in all, pretty average.
    I got up and gathered my things. Babette had put her copy of Elle next to her towel. I glanced toward the sea. They were swimming and laughing with the boys. I stooped quickly and stuffed the magazine into my bag, then moved further along the beach.
    The sea was calm; the view stretched out to the east. Cambodia was probably on the other side, or maybe Vietnam. There was a yacht, midway to the horizon. There must be millionaires who spend their time sailing back and forth across the oceans of the world, a life at once monotonous and romantic.
    Valérie approached, walking along the water's edge, amusing herself by taking a sidestep now and then to avoid a stronger wave. I quickly propped myself up on my elbows, becoming painfully conscious that she had a magnificent body and was very attractive in her rather sensible two-piece swimsuit. Her breasts filled out the bikini top perfectly. I gave a little wave, thinking that she hadn't seen me, but in fact she was already looking in my direction. It's not easy to one-up a woman.
    "You're reading Elle ?" she asked, a little surprised, quietly ironic.
    "Well...," I said.
    "May I?" she sat down beside me. Easily, with the familiarity of a regular reader, she skimmed through the magazine: a quick look at the fashion pages, another at the front pages. " Elle reads," " Elle goes out" .. .
    "Did you go to another massage parlor last night?" she asked, with a sidelong glance.
    "Um, no, I couldn't find one."
    She nodded briefly and went back to reading the cover story: "Are You Programmed to Love Him Forever?"
    "Is it any good?" I asked after a silence.
    "I haven't got a lover," she replied soberly. This girl completely unsettled me.
    "I don't really understand this magazine," she continued without a pause. "All it talks about is fashion and 'new trends': what you should see, what