After a few bites, Madeleine straightened slightly, meeting her gaze with mine. "Pierre..." she breathed, lightly touching the rim of her glass. "I think it's going to take me a while to recover from this afternoon. " "That much?" She nodded, as if she herself couldn't believe it. "That boy... he's incredible. I knew I'd enjoy myself, but not like this. Not with this intensity." She was silent for a moment, searching for words. Then, in a lower voice, she continued: "And then... his voice, his vocabulary..." I glanced at her sideways, guessing where she was going with this. "Ah, that..." She gave a hint of a smile, but I could see that the emotion was still gripping her deep inside. "He took me... really took me. Not just with his body, but with his words. What he said... the way he spoke to me... My God, Pierre, he was something!" She raised her glass to her lips, without taking her eyes off him, then gently set it down. “He knew exactly how to make me feel… like a woman giving herself, submitting. And I didn’t even want to resist. I felt like I wasn’t his partner, but his female.” Her voice had become quieter, more intimate, almost troubled. I let her continue, curious to hear what came next. “I thought I knew everything about pleasure, but he brought me back to something more instinctive, more raw… I loved it.” She stared at me intensely, perhaps seeking validation from me, or simply someone who understood. I took a sip of wine, savoring the moment, then smiled at her. Our glasses clinked gently, and we let the conversation float in the warm air of the patio, lulled by the flickering light of the lanterns and the distant murmur of the sleeping city. We parted at the end of the evening, like old friends. I was a little afraid she'd come after me again, but visibly completely satisfied by this afternoon, she placed a chaste kiss on my cheek and whispered: - We'll have to go back? Promise? - Promise, I replied, without being sure I wanted to do it again as a threesome with her. I was 20 years old, already had some experience and was looking for new discoveries. In any case, I told myself, I could always drop her off at Younes's.I spent a very quiet night, lulled by the light coolness that filtered through the half-open shutters. Yet, dawn had barely broken when I was awakened by a familiar presence, a figure I recognized even before fully opening my eyes. Daoud. True to form, he had slipped into my room with the discretion of a man who knows where he is going and what he is looking for. His perfume mixed the scent of musk, soap, and a restrained virility, and in the still pale shadow of morning, he joined me in bed with the same assurance as always. He honored me in his own way, methodical, attentive, but this time, something inside me still did not respond. I loved him, in my own way, even deeply, but my body, exhausted from the excesses of the previous day, refused to surrender to him as he would have liked. He was surprised, searching my eyes in the darkness with a hint of questioning, perhaps even a slight doubt. "You still don't feel anything?" I looked away slightly. He already knew the answer, and yet, he asked it again, as he always did, as if all it took was one night, one moment, for everything to finally change, for my body to respond to his. But he knew. He knew that, all my life, I had let myself go without ever feeling what he would have wanted me to feel. I had never needed to lie to him. He preferred silence to a blatant lie. So I simply placed a hand on his face, trying to erase the slight crack in his gaze. "You still have hope?" I breathed. He lowered his eyelids for a brief moment, as if to mask a fleeting thought, then shrugged with that typically masculine nonchalance that barely concealed his confusion. - They say that hope springs eternal... He stayed against me for a moment, his warm breath brushing the back of my neck, before straightening up and looking at me, a bit thoughtful. - You, you did crazy things yesterday... - Crazy things? I don't know what you're talking about... He let out a short laugh, a deep, quiet laugh, but with a hint of irritation in it. - Of course. And I'm the marabout. I raised myself slightly on one elbow, scrutinizing him for a moment before asking, almost teasingly: - And your wife, then? Isn't she surprised by your lack of assiduity? He raised an eyebrow, surprised, then a smile touched his lips before he slowly shook his head. - Ah, my love... You still don't understand, eh? Here, it's different. We don't marry for love, not in my time anyway. Marriage is a matter of family, honor, and respectability. Me,I was given a wife, just as I was given a house, a job. It was something that went without saying.He sighed slightly, staring at an invisible point on the ceiling. "Love... that's something else. Like with you... It doesn't always mix with marriage." A heavy silence fell between us, one of those silences that say more than words themselves. It was neither embarrassed nor heavy, but it carried within it a disturbing density, as if, by mutual agreement, we refused to name what was floating in the air. What he had just said was a disguised confession, a truth he wanted neither to affirm nor to deny, which he left suspended, in that in-between where things exist without being said. Perhaps it was this love he didn't want to name, this attachment he couldn't display openly—especially not for a man, and even less so for me, a Frenchman, a "Firançaoui", a stranger to his world, to his rules, to his silences. I looked at him, trying to catch the slightest crack in his face, a flaw that would betray what he was really thinking. But he remained impassive, with that self-control that the men of his country knew so well how to cultivate. Yet his breathing was slower, his body slightly ...

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