Mirella came to me every Friday afternoon, after the dance course. I could sit on the couch, while I remained behind the desk to look out the window the plane trees of the avenue. He talked about the work that he hated, jealous of her friends and her boyfriend who cheated on her. At the end of the session often burst into tears, and I instantly ran with tissues. The console speaking of his progress, then a new appointment with my secretary. On the same couch a June evening, Mirella and I made love. It was not a professional gesture, my own, but I feel better immediately.
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