The Erotic Potential of my Wife by David Foenkinos

underestimated Hector’s propensity to be twisted. It has to be said that the decision he had just taken was somewhat shocking; in any case, for all those who had been unable to reach the initial levels of his neurosis. When he saw himself shaking and sweating a few minutes ago, he had just had a revelation: he should never prevent Brigitte from washing the windows. His problem was not that she was cleaning, but rather that he was not there. Therefore, he considered that he had no other choice than to leave a camera in a nook in the apartment. A secret camera of course, and he would take delight in the images upon his return. There, he had his solution. On Saturday, he could go with a clear mind and support Marcel who was supporting Laurence. Until then, he did not go to work, and bought sufficiently adequate equipment. He did not regret all these moments spent reading magazines about the most up-to-date technology and modern furniture; he was even satisfied that this time was finally paying off. During all these steps, he did not once think back to the old Hector, the one who obsessed on acquiring a specific object. How did he manage not to understand the point to which he had relapsed? His illness, in catching up with him, had blindfolded him.
    Thankfully we still had a friend who, again and always, was going to explain our life to us. However, Marcel was not having an easy time of things. Selfishly, he knew that if Laurence had the misfortune of losing the match, the atmosphere at home would be unbearable, and he could always dream of seeing a real shepherd’s pie again. It was obviously not Marcel’s principal thought, and his whole heart united itself in cosmic waves with the sub-God delegated to the affairs of ping-pong. He was not being haughty: small stomach pains were harassing him. And it is finally because of this discomfort that the two friends ended speaking about the cleaning of windows. Wishing to distract, and thus hoping to diminish the gastric slippages of his friend, trying by all means possible to concentrate on this man who was almost asphyxiating him, Hector thought he was doing well in recounting his latest exploits. So he started to explain how he had hidden a camera on the top of a cabinet, a camera that would be set off at every movement in the axis of a dirty window. His attempt was crowned with a great success as Marcel, shocked by what he had just heard, stopped all his farts short. Aggrieved, he asked for some additional information: how did all of this start, how did such a crazy idea come to him, and so on. The explanations barely over, he uncovered the atrocity of his diagnostic.
    ‘Hector, you have plunged back!’
    In a first instance, Hector thought swimming pool. Then, he took his head out of the water to understand the figurative meaning of the words ‘plunged back’. He required silence to digest the terrible announcement. Everything tallied, every morsel of his new passion stuck, moment by moment, to his earlier life. This devastating fascination for a moment of his wife, and this irrepressible urge to relive it. He then enunciated this sentence, disconnecting every syllable: ‘I collect the moments when my wife washes the windows.’ Hector repeated this sentence 112 times. The sweat, the frenzy, he was collecting a moment of his wife. Again and again, the shock of the evidence. And the more he thought about it, the more he wanted a small hit of cleaning of windows; he was already addicted. He tried not to cry, and yet how to not think of this terrible question: was it possible to be another man? In meeting Brigitte, he had believed reaching the wonder of uniqueness, the woman of all unique women in each of her gestures, unique in her unique way of biting her lips, of passing her hands through her hair in the morning, with her grace and elegance, woman of women, unique in opening her thighs. And yet, nothing could be done, always the same mess, gnawing and absurd, always to lead