He comes to Celine’s flat later that night. I hear the knock but I don’t move. When she opens the door she speaks in French. I hear David reply in English. He asks to speak to Yara. My face is half submerged in bathwater. I blow bubbles out of my nose. Celine knocks on the bathroom door a moment later, her voice unsure.

“Yara,” she says. “Your David is here.”

I roll my eyes and hope he heard that. If someone has owned you once, can you ever be free?

“I’m in the bath,” I tell her.

“He says he urgently needs to speak with you.” Her voice is rising. She doesn’t like to be in the middle of conflict.

“All right,” I say, slowly. “He’s welcome to come in here if he wants to speak to me, but I just got in and he’s not ruining my bath like he’s already ruined my day,” I shout this so he can hear.

A minute later the little brass doorknob turns and David steps in. He keeps his eyes lowered as he closes the door behind him and sits on the lid of the toilet. His view is of the towel rack. On it one white towel hangs perfectly straight, sporting a black monogrammed C. Celine has an addiction to monograming things.

“The bath is filled with bubbles,” I say. “You can look at me.”

He swivels and then his eyes narrow.

I lied.

I shrug. “What is it that you want?” My words are clipped. I bend a knee, bring it out of the water, and he looks away, back at the towel.

“I’ve forgotten,” he says. “I came here for something but now I’ve forgotten why.”

I smile.

“Divorce,” I say. “You came because you want a divorce.”

“Do I?”

I reach for the glass of gin I carried in here with me and take a sip.

“Yes, so that you can marry that tattooed whore.” I try not to sound bitter when I say it.

He looks at me again, but this time I’ve turned away. I’m running water between my fingers.

“Don’t call her that,” he says.

It’s weak, his defense of the whore. Noted.

“I’ll call her whatever the fuck I want. She’s the whore my husband’s been sleeping with.” I say it slowly, deliberately. Let the words sink in.

He laughs and I look over. It’s a nice sound. All these little meetups we’ve been having and he’s never laughed until now. He’s looking at me again.

“Since when am I your husband?” he says.

I arch my back so he can see my tits.

“Since you said ‘for better or for worse.’ This is worse.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right,” I mimic.

I stand up and reach for the towel that’s sitting on the sink next to him. I let the water run down my body while he tries not to look.

“We’re married,” I tell him. “You can look.” I’m being cruel, but I don’t care. Cruel and the truth are the same thing.

He looks over slowly, like there is a tether to the back of his neck and he has to pull against it. His long eyelashes flutter and his lips part. It’s been a few years since he’s seen me without a fabric skin. There are a few changes, not many.

“And how many men has my wife slept with since she’s been married?”

This time I laugh. “We’re just two cheaters, aren’t we?”

I step out of the bath and onto the mat, toweling myself off. David watches me, but there’s not lust on his face. Just sadness.

I can hear Celine moving around the kitchen. She’s trying to hear what’s going on, worrying that we’ll soil her white towels. I wrap the towel around myself and step around him to open the door, letting the steam run out. He stands up to follow me.

“Wait here,” I say, and he sits back down.

My things are still in my suitcase after all this time. I pull it from underneath the sofa and take out underwear and clothes. I get dressed in the living room where Celine gives me a wide-eyed look, like—what the fuck is going on—and then I go get him.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” I tell her. “Have to sort things out with my cheating husband.”

Her brow creases as she frowns.

We walk without direction, down this street and that. The buildings loom over us as people move past their windows, feeding their families and winding down for the night. As always, I wish to know what they’re doing, what they’re saying to each other. Is there a right and wrong way to be human? David walks close to me, but we don’t touch. I want him to reach out and grab my hand like he used to. I want that so badly. When a couple of drunk guys amble down the narrow street, he moves between me and them, a human barrier. I get a lump in my throat remembering what it’s like to feel protected. I’ve never felt like I needed protecting, it was just the fact that someone wanted to do it. For a long time there’s just the consistent stride of two people not knowing how to start, then I ask the questions I’ve been waiting to ask.

“Did you and Petra have something when we were together?”

“No. Never. She came to a show about a year after you left and we…”

“Fucked.”

“Connected,” he corrects me.

“All right then,” I say, licking my lips. “Tell me about her.”

He stops abruptly and looks around. A light breeze lifts his hair.

“I’ll need a drink to do that. Or many.”

I point to a cafe across the street. “Drink away.”

He looks at my finger, my arm, my face, then turns his body to study the bar I’m pointing to like he’s in a trance.

“That place?” he asks.

I shrug. “It’s as good as any.”

It’s a lie, of course. Anyone can see that it’s grungy. The windows are filmed over with scum and the crowd standing outside has a drug mafia look to them. He nods like he doesn’t care, and I feel disappointed. I wanted him to be disgusted, maybe refuse to step foot into the place, then he’d give me reason not to like him, a real stuck-up asshole. I follow him across the street and through the door. The people standing outside don’t even look at us. The inside smells of bleach and beer, a day at the pool. I scrunch up my nose as David leads us to a booth. The benches are a deep red leather, split in some places. I slide over the cracks, and to my surprise, David slides in next to me.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Shielding you.”

“From what?” I already know what but I want to hear him say it.

“Sex slavery, harassment, the mafia…”

I laugh and he smiles at me, it’s genuine right down to his eyes.

Our shoulders are touching, so are our thighs. I lean my elbows on the table as the bartender comes to take our drink order. Beer for both of us. We hold the glasses between our palms and stare at the empty seats in front of us.

“Petra is complicated. She loves me and has given me a lot of room to be myself.”

“Who is yourself?”

“I guess I don’t really know anymore. I’m half wrapped up in grief, half wrapped up in music. She mostly gets that.”

“But she loves you, she stays.” There’s a catch in my voice, but I’m just stating the obvious, the truth.

“Yeah,” he says. “She knows I’m here, but she didn’t want me to come.”

I nod. “I wouldn’t have either.” We take a sip of our beer to kill the awkwardness.

“Why did you come?” I ask.

“I wanted to look at you.”

“And so you have. You’ve looked at me in England, and you’ve looked at me in France. Why do you need to look anymore? Give me the goddamn papers and let me sign them!”

“I haven’t made up my mind,” he said.

“About what, David? What?”

He looks startled. I see the bartender peep out from behind a wall and then quickly retreat. I quiet my voice, but it’s still angry.

“You thought you’d come here and hate me? You thought you’d feel relieved that I walked out and you can pretend it was all for the best? Or did you think you’d take one look and know that you’re no longer in love with me? So tell me, David. Do you feel those things, or is it still me you’ll write songs for?”

This time he is silent.

“I came because I love you,” he says. “Still, after all these years.”