The Conversion Read Online Free

shape of a medium-sized dildo. He spread the tarp in the shade and we went at it like two beasts. I must add that during our entire time away, he was effusively affectionate and seemed incredibly content, although I did notice a few moments when he became worryingly withdrawn.
    We rode back into the city in late afternoon of the fourth day—glorious Paris luxuriating in a scarf of sunny amber; so many vibrant fruits were perfectly arranged in oak bins, grand monuments casting languorousshadows, well-heeled Parisians crowding the narrow, smoky cafés and strolling the Seine arm in arm. There was a pervading smell of fermenting yeast and the slow, simmering scent of cognac sauce. Hugging Michel around his taut stomach, resting my chin on his shoulder, I found myself bitterly regretting that in a just a few moments I’d be alone. And, indeed, in a month’s time, my apartment swap would be over. I found myself wishing some other opportunity for work would present itself before I’d have to hoof it back to my cheap one-bedroom flat in Brooklyn in an out-of-the-way place called Gravesend.
    As we drew within a few blocks of my apartment, the sadness of having to part with Michel overwhelmed me. After all, I’d never before had him to myself for four days straight. It was a luxury I felt I could easily get used to and even began fantasizing that Michel’s feelings for me would become so urgent and undeniable that he’d be forced to leave Laurence. I got myself worked up into such a state of absurd hope that I felt tears smarting in my eyes and had to fight off the urge to weep. For I instinctively knew I could never show this desperate side of myself, that it would portend disaster. Instead, I promised myself a swim at the fifty-meter pool at the Forum des Halles. I’d do laps, look at all the attractive Parisian men, maybe even get some attention, and somehow make myself feel better.
    When we finally arrived at my building, Michel parked the motorcycle next to one of those green, octagonal newspaper kiosks. The swarthy North African man who sold roasted corn there recognized me, nodded, and smiled. But I didn’t really pay much attention to him then because I was fighting to keep my composure. I hastily grabbed my toiletry bag and my dress pants and was preparing to say good-bye when Michel hit the motorcycle’s kill switch and said to me, “Russell, I need a word.”
    “About what?” Sensing something wrong, my whole lovesick body went on pulsing alert.
    His gaze was steady and without expression. “Well … honestly Laurence finds out about our relationship.”
    The terrifying feeling of free fall began. “She
did?
But did you tell her?”
    “Of course I don’t tell her!”
    “Then how?”
    He heaved a great sigh in the way the French do and exhaled through tightened lips. I was so light-headed and frantic that the subsequent words came to me piecemeal, as though we were in a wind tunnel. Apparently,the previous week while he and I were having coffee in out-of-the-way Saint Germain-en-Laye, a friend of his wife also happened to be there, unbeknownst to Michel. We’d been seen holding hands and nuzzling each other.
    I heard him saying quite distinctly, “And so when Laurence asks me, I don’t deny it.” Not quite comfortable with English, Michel had an annoying tendency to cling to the present and future tense, whose narrow dimensions somehow made his news sound even more harrowing and irreversible.
    “Well, you said you would never deny it,” I replied automatically in a breathless voice.
    He merely shrugged. “She has told me to stop it. And as you know, and as we discuss, I must do as she asks.”
    “But … the last four days?” I sputtered. “What have they been
about?
Why did you go away with me when you knew
this
was going to happen?”
    Michel said, “Well, she knows I will be with you. I tell her I want to be. And she let me go, but only if I will speak to you at the end.”
    “So you’ve