Page 50 of French Escapade

“I get it. I’m the same.”

He smiles, but doesn’t walk away.

“Should I make you a coffee, then?” I ask.

“I would love that.”

We slowly climb up to the second floor. I seldom regret living in the old part of town, where buildings are elevator-free, but right at this moment, I do.

When we finally reach my floor and my home, I tell him, “Go on into the living room. I’ll join you in a minute. I’m going to make coffee.”

He gathers all the odds and ends of paper left behind after our impromptu briefing and sits on my sofa.

I would like nothing more than a warm shower, but I don’t want to leave Ken alone for too long. I slip out of my cocktail dress and pick something more comfortable. A pair of shorts and a tee-shirt will do. Still, before I leave the room, I can’t help but look at myself in the mirror.

I’m pale as a ghost, and my makeup is just a memory. For a second I consider fixing it, and then I remember what I told myself only a few moments ago.

This one’s not for you, Élodie.

Instead, I go to the kitchen to fix us a pick-me-up.

Nothing is more pleasant than the smell of freshly-brewed coffee after a night on duty. I make myself an espresso and, because I don’t know how Ken takes his, I prepare a watered-down version for him. That’s what we callun Américainhere in France.

When I return in my living room with both cups, I see that Ken is not going to drink his. He thought he would not be able to get any rest, and he’s sleeping like a baby on a couch that’s way too small for him.

I do not resist the urge to watch him for a moment. He looks different—relaxed, younger, carefree. Has he had many carefree moments in his life the past few years, while raising his sister and going to war in foreign countries?

As quietly as possible, I go in search of a spare blanket and cover him up. I think he deserves this short respite.

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