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slamming the door, feeling self- conscious for doing so, but unable to express myself any other way in the face of Andrei’s dismissal.
    ~
    There are messages from my agent. Details to work out. Contracts to sign.
    So what? It’s not like I need the money.
    Am I betraying Andrei’s legacy by publishing my own work under my name? Should I use a pseudonym? Or maybe scrap the whole idea. I’ll never be the writer he was.
    I lie on the couch all day. The phone rings. Again. And again. I let it ring. Tamara wouldn’t call, and there’s no-one else I want to talk to, even if, as I fear might now happen because of my transgression, we never see each other again.
    When Tamara wakes me by caressing my cheek, I realize that I had fallen asleep.
    ~
    Andrei’s relationship with Tamara lasted a full year, months longer than any of his previous affairs. I had barely seen either of them since I’d stormed out of Andrei’s apartment like a bad actor. After a few weeks, I visited Andrei twice, but my resentment was too overpowering, and the encounters were forced and awkward. I was physically unable to be around Tamara without feeling nauseous. So I stopped calling them, and I never heard from either of them. Occasionally, I’d spot them downtown, but I always managed to creep away unseen.
    Then one day I found a handwritten invitation in my mailbox. I recognized Andrei’s precise, feminine script. There were no details, save for a time and the name and address of a restaurant. I dreaded some sort of wedding announcement. Or that he’d finally shooed Tamara out of his life like all the others before her. I didn’t know which of the two I feared more.
    Of course, I went. I was lonely, bored, and miserable, and I missed my friend.
    I’d never heard of the restaurant, so I was unprepared. I’d dressed casually, and this turned out to be an intimidatingly swanky establishment. I was sure they weren’t going to let me in. True to my expectations, the maître d’ sneered at me when I stepped through the door, but when I said Andrei’s name, he repeated it almost reverentially and instructed a waiter to escort me to Andrei’s table.
    Andrei’s table turned out to be a private room, lushly decorated with museum-quality reproductions and fresh flowers. I recognized Debussy’s String Quartet – a favourite of Andrei’s – playing at just the right volume. The table was set for two; there was an empty chair waiting for me. Tamara sat in the other chair.
    Tamara asked, “What are you doing here? I mean – Where’s Andrei?”
    I shrugged. “Andrei sent me an invitation. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
    “But it’s our anniversary. Where–?”
    I knew, then, that Andrei had left her. And indeed he had, but that wasn’t the whole truth. That came later.
    Before either of us could say anything more, the waiter brought in the hors d’oeuvres.
    Tamara said, “But we haven’t ordered anything.”
    We learned that Andrei had arranged our evening’s menu in advance. We ate in silence, but not even that tense awkwardness could mask the heavenly taste of the food.
    We finally spoke to each other when it came time to argue over who would get the cheque, but we were informed that Andrei had already paid for everything, and that not even a gratuity would be accepted from either of us.
    Befuddled, we walked out together. We glanced at each other, and we both laughed at ourselves. Still chuckling, Tamara took my arm, and we walked together through downtown, all the while talking like dear old friends. We didn’t utter a word about Andrei.
    When we parted, she gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek, but there was genuine warmth in her smile. Silently, I cursed Andrei for what I believed he was doing to her.
    The next day, I received a couriered letter, requesting my presence at the law office of Laurent Tavernier the following Monday at nine in the morning. Not a little alarmed, I called to know what this was all about. The