First message
Michel walks into the apartment late at night.
She immediately steps out of the kitchen with a cigarette already in her hand.
“What is it this time?” she asks sharply. “Family? Work? Dead friend? Helping an old lady cross the street?”
The sarcasm in her voice is obvious. She is furious.
Michel’s expression instantly hardens into defensive irritation.
“If you trusted me, you’d know I was working,” he snaps back bitterly.
He pulls two hundred euros from his pocket and smacks the bills against her chest with arrogant resentment more than generosity.
“I’m going to sleep. Don’t touch me.”
Michel walks across the annoyingly creaking floorboards and disappears into the bedroom.
The door slams shut.