The Shy Wife's Diary – Part 1: Page Forty-Seven

The diary was left open on the kitchen table, face down, the way Camille always left things when she was distracted. Julien turned it over to move it out of the way of the bread knife, and his eyes landed on page forty-seven before he could stop them.

I want him to ask me what I want. Not in the bedroom. Everywhere. I want to be asked and to answer and to be heard, and I'm too scared to say it out loud.

He closed the diary very carefully, as if it might bite, and set it back exactly where it had been.

Camille came in from the bakery downstairs a minute later, wiping flour from her hands, and stopped in the doorway.

"Did you read it?" she asked. Her voice was small.

"Only one page," said Julien. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

She went pale, then pink, then pale again. "Oh God."

"Camille, don't." He stood up, slowly, and crossed the small kitchen. "Please don't feel ashamed. Can I say something?"

"I don't know."

"I'm going to say it anyway," said Julien. "Because I think I'm the one who should have asked you a long time ago."

She sat down heavily on the stool by the window, twisting her apron between her fingers. Julien sat opposite her, close enough to touch but not touching.

"What do you want?" he asked gently.

Camille stared at the table. "I don't know how to say it."

"Then write it down, like you did. And read it to me."

She looked up, startled. Then she reached for the diary and opened it to page forty-seven, and her hand trembled as she read.

"I want to be asked," she read, very quietly. "I want to answer. I want us to talk about the things we never talk about, and I want you to want to hear them. I want to feel brave in my own kitchen."

Julien didn't say anything for a moment. He reached across the table and laid his hand on hers, palm up, waiting.

"That's a good list," he said at last, his voice rough. "Can I add something?"

"Yes."

"I want you to ask me the same questions back. I've been pretending for years that I know what you want, because it was easier than asking."

Camille's eyes filled. She turned her hand over under his and laced their fingers together.

"Do you want to stop talking now?" Julien asked.

"No," she said. "Green. I want to keep going. Just slower."

"Then we'll go slower," said Julien, and smiled, the way he had the day they met over a box of croissants that had come out burnt.

They sat at the kitchen table for two hours, with cold tea and the diary between them, asking each other questions that neither of them had ever dared to ask.