When I was a student, I gave home lessons to supplement my ends of the month.My students in general were pretty nice, except for one, one named Billy, the spoiled kid archetype, who couldn't care less about any effort that could be put into him.After the first four or five lessons, I wanted to return my ticket because this teenager was unbearable arrogance. But I didn't, because if Billy was hateful, his mom, on the contrary, who greeted me at the door every Wednesday before class, was quite charming.She was a bourgeois, always well dressed, devoting herself to keeping the family home in order while her husband, a businessman, roamed the country in search of new, juicy contracts.One Wednesday, one more, when Billy shortened the half hour of class on the pretext that he had to find his friends, Sylvie, his mother, offered to drink a coffee before I left. I accepted without being asked. Sylvie that day was as lovely as ever: tight-fitting red dress falling to her mid-thigh and black patent pumps with thin stilettos.Sitting on the couch in front of me, she began to talk about the difficulties she was having with Billy, telling me about her husband who was never there. The moment was awkward. I had finished my coffee and was about to leave when she tried to hold me back: "Do you want another coffee? Or something else? A small glass of wine? I have a very good bottle of it since Monday, that would be a chance to finish it." And then she laughed, ashamed of what she had just said.But go for the glass of wine. She put two stemmed glasses on the coffee table, then brought back the bottle of wine and served us. I took a sip and then a second and slightly intoxicated, my gaze less and less left the thi ...

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