...of the morning after a one-night stand

She is woken by the hushed modulations of a voice. Sitting up on the edge of the bed, she spots her clothes carefully folded on a chair. Her tongue is furred, her head aches; slowly she gets into her clothes. Spruce and already dressed, Renee is on the phone. A silent good morning, a gesture in the direction of the table, as the lips mouth help yourself. On the table are the tea, the orange juice, and the croissants. The perfect breakfast. All that's missing is the husband, she muses. Sitting down, she pours the tea into a cup and blows on the steaming liquid. The black hairs of Renee's wig dangle and shift against his back during the course of his telephone conversation. The long silences, punctuated by the word yes, prove that the person at the other end of the line is either very talkative or very upset. I'll come, Renee keeps saying: yes, I'll come, I promise. You promised me, she whispers to her unheeding cup, reproducing her indignation of the night before. Renee turns round, looking falsely annoyed at being stuck on the phone while his guest his up and about. She picks off a piece of croissant, chewing it diligently to reduce it to a saliva-soaked paste, which she doesn't swallow but goes on chewing. Eventually, Renee hangs up; what remains of the croissant goes straight to her stomach. Is it good? I'm going to have to leave pretty soon. His words come out detached, devoid of purpose, leaving her with the unpleasant impression that it is her mother who is talking to her. She imagines him with an apron round his waist. Renee is already putting on a jacket and writing his number down on a scrap of paper. He asks if she can get a move on. They're outside his building; she doesn't recognise the surroundings. I'll call you, he says, kissing her cheek. He points out the way to the nearest metro station and strides off in the opposite direction. As she passes a dustbin, she throws away the slip of paper.

[Voice Over, Curiol, C.]