The Erotic Potential of my Wife Read Online Free PDF Page B

neighbouring street. ‘He calls me as soon as he spots a rare specimen, and I go there to filch the treasure.’ Unique and easy collection, no anxiety, there were only benefits. On that note, Laurence came in and offered to make dinner. Hector yawned but it was not enough for him to escape. He allowed himself the indiscretion of asking his friend whether his wife was jealous of his collection. Laurence jealous? This was so nonsensical that Marcel could not even muster a laugh. Laurence was not jealous, and Laurence was preparing a roast that she had kept for her return; it was one of her peculiarities, she loved eating a roast after returning from ping-pong. ‘Perfect,’ said Hector. In any case, he didn’t have a choice in the matter. They were offering him a mandatory Martini in the guise of an aperitif. Marcel looked him straight in the eye and announced with solemnity: ‘I have presented my collection and my wife to you … You really are a part of my life!’ Hector was moved to
really
be a part of someone’s life, but he could not help feeling uncomfortable. He had not yet dared to admit that he was not crazy about roasts.
    Laurence called Hector. She wanted to get to know his culinary preferences, more precisely his preference for cooking time, so he went into the kitchen. Oh me, well you know … He did not have any particular taste. She came towards him as though she suddenly wanted to stare at him, Hector could no longer make out the details of her face, especially not the active tongue that she had just stuffed in his mouth. Simultaneous to this oral aggression, she fondled his testicles. Then, pulling back just as suddenly, she said loudly: ‘Very well, I’ll make sure it’s rare!’
    Hector mumbled and blamed it on the Martini. Nevertheless, he felt the irrepressible urge to help himself to another drink. Drinking avidly, he closed his eyes so as not to see the face of the friend he had just betrayed, this friend who was showing him his collection and presenting him his wife. Hector was vermin. Wives were being presented to him, and he offered his testicles. It took him some time to realise that he had been sexually assaulted. A word was stuck in his mouth, an obvious word, but nonetheless a word that did not dare come out: nymphomaniac. My God, Marcel lived with a nymphomaniac. This same Marcel approached him, and as though he could read his guilt, he asked: ‘Do you think my wife’s attractive?’
    He hurriedly answered no, before realising the tactlessness of such a response. He lamentably retracted his answer to a yes, of course. Hector was no social ace. Why was this happening to him? He was sweating. Marcel approached his ear to whisper that women who play ping-pong had a magical way of fondling, ‘erm, well you know what I mean.’ Hector was reanimated with some slaps, and Marcel accompanied him home.
    Marcel tucked him in, and insisted that Hector call him at any time in case of emergency. He had quite a bad night, he was tormented by images of old collections, he dreamed of overflowing wardrobes where he did not lack anything. He clung to these dreams, and could not stand opening his eyes again. But someone was ringing his doorbell early in the morning; and the bell was far too insistent to pretend not to be there. An enormous box was delivered that, once left in the living room by the sweaty courier, lorded it like a dictator after a putsch. He opened it mechanically to fall face to face with two thousand corks, give or take, from champagne bottles. And at the top, a card on which was written:
    Monsieur Honorė Delphine, deceased on 12 October, has left you his collection of corks.
    This time, he could not pull himself back together. There he was, trying to be a man like any other, but still people were sending him corks. There were always dead people who were sufficiently bored to try to ruin lives; feeling so lonely, they tried to hasten the demise of the living. Destabilised by a