Jacob laughs nervously and has another sip of wine. The bottle’s empty; Marianne motions to the waiter to bring another.

“… but I try to see it as part of a normal relationship. If my man wasn’t desired and pursued by these sluts, then he must be completely uninteresting. Instead of jealousy, you know what I feel? Horniness. I often take off my clothes, approach him naked, spread my legs, and ask him to do to me exactly what he did with them. Sometimes I ask him to tell me how it was, and this makes me come many times.”

“That’s all in Marianne’s fantasies,” says Jacob, rather unconvincingly. “She makes these things up. The other day she asked if I would like to go to a swingers club in Lausanne.”

He’s not joking, of course, but everyone laughs, including her.

To my horror, I discover that Jacob is enjoying being labeled the “unfaithful male.” My husband seems very interested in Marianne’s reply and asks her to talk a bit more about the arousal she gets from knowing about the extramarital affairs. He asks for the address of the swingers club and gazes at me, his eyes shining. He says it’s about time we tried something different. I don’t know if he’s trying to manage the almost unbearable atmosphere at the table or if he is actually interested in trying. Marianne says she doesn’t know the address, but if he gives her his phone number, she’ll send it to him by text.

Time to spring into action. I say that, in general, jealous people will try to show exactly the opposite in public. They love to make insinuations and see if they can get some information about their partner’s behavior, but are naïve to think they’ll succeed. I, for example, could be having an affair with your husband and you would never know, because I’m not stupid enough to fall for that trap.

My tone changes slightly. My husband looks at me, surprised at my answer.

“Darling, don’t you think that’s going a little far?”

No, I don’t. I’m not the one who started this conversation, and I don’t know what Mme König is driving at. But ever since we got here she hasn’t stopped insinuating things, and I’m sick of it. By the way, have you noticed how she’s been staring at me the whole time we’ve been talking about something that’s of no interest to anyone at this table but her?

Marianne looks at me, stunned. I think she didn’t expect a reaction because she’s used to controlling everything.

I say that I’ve met a lot of people who are driven by obsessive jealousy, and not because they think their husband or wife is committing adultery, but because they would like to be the center of attention all the time, and they’re not. Jacob calls the waiter and asks for the bill. Great. After all, they were the ones who invited us and who should bear the expense.

I look at my watch and pretend to be greatly surprised; it’s already past the time we gave the babysitter! I get up, thank them for dinner, and go to the cloakroom to get my coat. The conversation has already shifted to children and the responsibilities they bring.

“Do you think she really thought I was talking about her?” I hear Marianne asking my husband.

“Of course not. There would be no reason for that.”

We go out into the cold air, not saying much. I’m angry, anxious, and I volunteer without being prompted that yes, she was talking about me, and that that woman is so neurotic that on election day she also made several insinuations. She’s always wanting to show off—she must be dying of jealousy over the jerk whose “proper behavior” she controls with an iron fist so he has some future in politics, even though she’s really the one who’d like to be campaigning for what is right or wrong.

My husband says that I’ve had too much to drink and should calm down.

We walk in front of a cathedral. Mist covers the city again and makes everything look like we’re in a horror movie. I imagine Marianne waiting for me in a corner with a dagger, like in the days Geneva was a medieval city and in constant battle with the French.

Neither the cold nor the walk calms me down. We get the car, and when we arrive home I go directly to the bedroom and swallow two Valiums while my husband pays the babysitter and puts the kids to bed.

I sleep for ten hours straight. The next day, when I get up for the usual morning routine, I start to think my husband is a little less affectionate. It’s almost imperceptible, but still something yesterday made him uncomfortable. I’m not sure what to do—I’ve never taken two tranquilizers at once, and am experiencing a lethargy that’s nothing like the one loneliness and unhappiness caused.

I leave for work and automatically check my phone. There’s a text from Jacob. I’m hesitant to open it, but curiosity is greater than hate.

It was sent this morning, very early.

“You blew it. She had no idea that there was something between us, but now she’s sure. You fell into a trap she didn’t set.”

I HAVE to stop by the damn supermarket to buy groceries, feeling frustrated and unloved. Marianne is right; I’m nothing more than a sexual hobby for the stupid dog sleeping in her bed. I drive dangerously because I can’t stop crying, the tears keeping me from seeing the other cars clearly. I hear honking and complaints. I try to slow down; I hear more honking and more complaints.

If it was stupid to let Marianne suspect something, it was even more stupid to risk everything I have—my husband, my family, my job.

Driving under the delayed effects of two tranquilizers and with frazzled nerves, I realize that I am also putting my life at risk. I park on a side street and cry. My sobs are so loud that someone approaches and asks if I need help. I say no and the person walks away. But the truth is I do need help—a lot. I’m plunging deeper into my inner self, into its sea of mud, and I can’t swim.

I’m blinded by hatred. I imagine that Jacob has already recovered from yesterday’s dinner and will never want to see me again. It’s my fault for wanting to go beyond my limits, for always thinking that my behavior is suspicious, that everyone knows what I am doing. Maybe it’s a good idea to call and apologize, but I know he won’t answer. Maybe it’s better to call my husband and see if he’s okay? I know his voice. I know when he’s angry and tense, even though he’s a master at self-control. But I don’t want to know. I’m really scared. My stomach is churning, and my hands clench around the steering wheel. I allow myself to cry as loud as I can, to shout and make a scene in the only safe place on earth: my car. The person who approached me is now eyeing me from afar, afraid I’ll do something stupid. No, I won’t do anything. I just want to cry. Is that too much to ask?

I feel like I inflicted this abuse on myself. I want to go back in time, only that’s impossible. I need to make a plan to regain lost ground, but I can’t think straight. All I can do is cry, feeling ashamed and hateful.

How could I have been so naïve? Thinking that Marianne was looking at me and saying what I already knew? Because I felt guilty, like a criminal. I wanted to humiliate her, to destroy her in front of her husband so she wouldn’t see me as just a pastime. I know I don’t love him, but he has slowly been giving me back some of the joy I’d lost, keeping me from the pit of loneliness I had been drowning in up to my neck. And now I am realizing that those days are gone forever. I have to come back to reality, to the supermarket, to the days that are all alike, and to the safety of my home—something that was once so important to me, but had started feeling like a prison. I need to pick up the pieces that are still left. Perhaps confess everything that happened to my husband.

I know he’ll understand. He’s a good, intelligent man who always puts family first. But what if he doesn’t understand? What if he decides that he’s had enough, that we’ve reached our limit and he’s tired of living with a woman who started off complaining of depression and now laments being left by her lover?