He’s having dinner in Paris, and I’m running trays in the dining hall. I don’t want to be nice—especially not with an ex.
He’s all polished and rich and successful in an expensive suit. And I— in black trousers, a dark T-shirt, and an apron—scurry around the hall, placing plates and carrying away empty glasses. He’s a guest here, and I’m “serving staff.” And I’m raising our daughter, about whom he knows nothing.
“Five years we haven’t seen each other. I hope we won’t see each other for at least as long,” I throw at him when I’m leaving.
But Marat grabs my hand and won’t let go. Then he suggests playing a couple in front of his family.
“I’ll pay,” he says.
And I would never have agreed to something like that—except for the fact that I really need money.