40 - Finale in C Major

Normally, I’m the one who can’t walk after a date. But this time, it was Amar—for reasons far less sexy than you might think.

Our tangled scheduling issues had kept us apart for quite a while. Regrettable, yes—but until we finally hire someone to coordinate our love-life logistics, it can’t be helped. All the more delightful, then, when the universe threw us a bone:

one of my favorite jazz bands was performing just a short walk from Amar’s place. We both love jazz, so we set a date on the spot. Intimacy, sex, and jazz in La Défense — the perfect chord progression for an evening somewhere between lust and lounge.

When I finally arrived—having even secured one of the elusive parking spots—I was thrilled to see his shining eyes again and be greeted by his stormy kisses. Until I noticed the way he waddled toward the bedroom. He was so stiff—and I don’t mean that part—that I briefly wondered whether I should hand him a hot-water bottle instead of a condom. When I asked what was wrong, he said only: “Bit of a back thing.” He unzipped my dress with unwavering determination—leaving no doubt that he wanted some horizontal attention right now.

And who am I to deny a man with back pain a little… distraction and relief?

He had the back; I had the appetite.

Together, we managed to find a few positions even an orthopedist would have approved.

To my immense relief, the apartment was in much better shape than during my infamous 45-minute lunch-break quickie. This time, you could even shower without having to slip condoms over your feet. No dirty laundry strewn around, no food remnants in sight—almost suspiciously tidy, the kind that hints at potential relationship material.

I should've spotted the signs.

On our way to the Grande Arche, he told me he'd met a woman—someone who might become something more. I was genuinely happy for him. But it meant, inevitably, that this was our goodbye. Amar wants a classic relationship, despite the tempting glimpses I’ve given him of our open marriage.

We enjoyed the concert. He made it through—perhaps out of politeness, perhaps hoping jazz would loosen his nerve. On the way back, Amar no longer waddled like a penguin on ice—he inched forward like a vineyard snail crawling over broken glass. He had literal separation pain—as if Cupid himself had shot him in the back. Even if he can only crawl toward true love at snail speed, I’m rooting for him.

And my husband?

He had exactly the right song on his schedule this week: Sauver l’amour — “Save Love.” He stood there singing for love—and for the ratio, just to prevent any future statistical deviations. I was impressed. And amused. He’d let Antonia, the complicated Italian, talk him into rehearsing a song with 300 other people (presumably not all dragged-along Tinder dates), under professional guidance—followed by a filmed performance.

This week, one of my men had an erection, the other an intonation —

clean notes in C major instead of uncensored lust.

The only off-key moment came from Amar’s back.