The afternoon hasn't even been underway for an hour, yet the June heat is already seeping through the half-open shutters of the office, on the third floor of a Haussmann building in the tenth arrondissement. Paris buzzes outside — a scooter's horn, the murmur of plane trees as the wind passes through them — but here, behind the glass door with the name engraved in satin letters, the silence has a completely different weight. The wall clock, hanging above the light wood bookshelf, reads 2:02 PM.
Lisa rises from behind her desk — a thick, light wood surface, overflowing with the life of someone who works with their body as much as their head: open notebooks, pads of dog-eared paper, piles of loose documents, a black pot crowded with blunt-tipped pens, a sage green cup where the residue has dried in concentric circles. She is wearing a small, fitted ribbed knit polo, dark khaki leaning towards olive brown, the top buttons open at the base of her collarbone, and an asymmetrical black wrap skirt tied at the side. Her sheer black tights catch the streaks of light filtering through the slats of the shutters. Her chestnut brown hair with copper highlights falls in natural, vaguely messy waves to the middle of her chest, the wispy bangs brushing the top of her eyebrows.
— Good evening — she interrupts herself with a smile, a dimple forming on her left cheek where freckles are scattered. Excuse me. Good morning. The fatigue of a long morning. Hello Fabrice, hello Angélique. Welcome.
She gestures toward the cream-colored sofa facing her. Behind her, a black frame labeled "Sexology" borders a powder pink female silhouette. A bit further on, words are written vertically: Listening — Trust — Respect — Pleasure — Health — Freedom.
Angélique pushes the door open first. Her hand seeks Fabrice's — gripping it with the strength of someone clinging to a thread. Well-cut jeans, a small beige turtleneck sweater molding to her shoulders. Her gaze sweeps the office and lingers a second too long on the door behind her.
— Well... she whispers. We're here.
She sits down. Fabrice settles beside her — or perhaps a bit too far. Lisa returns to her dark brown armchair, crosses her legs, and opens the file.
— Is it alright if we start with your intimacy? What brought you here?
Her voice glides toward Angélique, soft, without urgency.
— Angélique... would you like to tell me?