French Exit

by Patrick deWitt

Frances’s concern was existential; she lately had found herself mired in an eerie feeling, as one standing with her back to the ocean.

Over the course of the consumption of the cake, Joan became emotional, and the moment she finished she hurried from the cafeteria, fearful she might cry from the fact of Frances’s kindness, and she did cry, in the forest by the lake where a loon came in for a wake-making landing on the polished silver water.

He was a pile of American garbage and she feared she would love him forever.

It’s important, Mr. Rudy, that you understand my point of view, and appreciate both the fact and scope of my nihilism.

Lmao

He drank, at times to excess, but there was nothing dark about it; he was looking not to kill a thought but to reset the clock, to force an occurrence.

She’d not met anyone like him before and she admired him for his uncommon, complicated, almost entirely untenable belief systems.

Susan thought of Malcolm as an exotic pet, a stopgap antidote to postcollege doldrums, but then something terrible happened, which was that she fell in love with him. It was like an illness coming on; it loitered at the edges of her consciousness, then pounced, gripping her mind and heart.

Susan’s numerous panicked questions were met with Malcolm at his vaguest and most maddening. The inquisition trailed off; there was nothing more to say; the time had come for Susan to give up once and for all. She felt struck.

Malcolm asked her if she was all right and she answered, “I overheard a man say it was five miles to the bottom of the sea.” “Yes?” he said, sitting. “Well, I wish I didn’t know it. What a stupid thing to say on a cruise ship.”

It was low-quality champagne but the bubbles fizzed pleasantly against Frances’s lips and she was amused at her evening’s detour. It occurred to her that, so long as she maintained forward motion, her life could not not continue, a comforting equation that conjured in her a sense of empowerment and ease.

I don’t miss them particularly, but I miss the noise they made. That’s why I invited you over, because I’m lonely.” Frances felt burdened, even revolted by the admission. “How’d your husband die?” she asked.

Her vengeance is digging into her grief

You know, I don’t think there’s anything better for morale than fresh plans.”

Malcolm discovered the area could be watched in the same way a television was watched. Themes emerged, moral lessons, dramas, occasional comedies, reliable oddities. Malcolm had always been a satisfied silent observer; now he devoted a good portion of his waking moments to doing just this.

“Do you ever feel,” she asked, “that adulthood was thrust upon you at too young an age, and that you are still essentially a child mimicking the behaviors of the adults all around you in hopes they won’t discover the meager contents of your heart?”

“Is that a fact?” she asked. “An unfortunate fact.” “And how do you know this?” “It’s an understood thing.” “Can you make it understood to me?” “I don’t know that I can. I wish you’d be good and take my word for it.” “I’ll try,” said Mme Reynard bravely. She was having such an exciting time, so that she could have shrieked with delight.

Hahahsha

She knew she was living improperly but hadn’t the strength to correct herself.

Malcolm and Frances made no comment. They’d become used to Mme Reynard’s neediness and had decided the best way to curb it was to ignore her until she began behaving attractively again.

“What you want is to know someone’s there; you also want them to leave you alone. I’ve got that with Don. But, I was shocked because I suddenly understood that the heart takes care of itself. We allow ourselves contentment; our heart brings us ease in its good time.”

do you know what a cliché is? It’s a story so fine and thrilling that it’s grown old in its hopeful retelling.” Joan couldn’t help but smile at this. “People tell it,” Frances said. “Not so many live it.”