It would seem that Jacob lives in a completely different world from mine, where wives don’t feel jealous and husbands encourage their wives to have affairs. Am I missing out?

“Time heals everything, don’t you think?”

That depends. Time can often make things worse. That’s what’s happening with me, but I came here to interview, not to be interviewed, so I don’t say anything. He goes on:

“The Nigerians don’t know this. I’ve set a trap for them with the Ministry of Finance and arranged to record everything, exactly as they did with me.”

At that point, I see my article go out the window, and along with it my big chance of rising up the ladder in a dying industry. There’s nothing new to be told—no adultery, no blackmail, no corruption. Everything is following the Swiss pattern of quality and excellence.

“Have you finished asking questions? Can we move on to another subject?”

Yes, I’ve asked all my questions, but I don’t really have another subject.

“I think you should have asked why I wanted to see you again. And why I wanted to know if you were happy. Do you think I’m interested in you sexually? We’re not teenagers anymore. I confess that I was surprised by what you did in my office, and I loved coming in your mouth, but that isn’t enough of a reason for why we are here, especially considering we can’t do that kind of thing in a public place. So don’t you want to know why I wanted to meet you again?”

The jack-in-the-box of that question about whether or not I’m happy springs out at me again. Doesn’t he realize that you don’t ask that kind of thing?

Only if you want to tell me, I reply, in order to provoke him and destroy, once and for all, that arrogant air of his that makes me feel so insecure. Then I add: It’s because you want to go to bed with me. You won’t be the first I’ve told “no.”

He shakes his head. I pretend to be unfazed and point at the waves on the normally calm surface of the lake below. We sit looking at them as if they were the most interesting thing in the world until he manages to find the right words:

“As you no doubt realized, I asked if you were happy because I recognized myself in you. Similarities attract. You may not feel the same about me, but that doesn’t matter. You may be mentally exhausted, convinced that your nonexistent problems—problems you know are nonexistent—are draining you of all your energy.”

I had that exact thought during lunch; tortured souls recognize each other and are drawn together in order to frighten the living.

“I feel the same,” he says. “Except that my problems are more real. Since I depend on the approval of so many people, I am filled with self-loathing when I haven’t resolved this or that problem. And that makes me feel useless. I’ve thought of seeking medical help, but my wife doesn’t want me to. She says that if anyone found out, it could ruin my career. I agree.”

So he talks about these things with his wife. Perhaps tonight I’ll do the same with my husband. Instead of going to a nightclub, I could sit down with him and tell him everything. How would he react?

“Of course, I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” he continues. “At the moment I’m trying to force myself to look at the world differently, but it’s not working. When I see someone like you—and I’ve met a lot of people in the same situation—I try to find out how they’re dealing with the problem. I need help, you see, and that’s the only way I can get it.”

So that’s it. No sex, no great romantic affair to bring a little sunshine into the gray Geneva afternoon. He just wants a support group, the kind of thing alcoholics and drug addicts have.

I get up.

I look him straight in the eye and say that I’m actually very happy, and that he should go to a psychiatrist. His wife can’t control everything in his life. Besides, medical confidentiality would guarantee that no one would find out. I have a friend who was cured by taking pills. Does he want to spend the rest of his life haunted by the specter of depression just to be reelected? Is that what he wants for his future?

He looks around to see if anyone is listening. I’ve already done that, and I know we’re alone apart from a group of drug dealers on the other side of the park, behind the restaurant. But they won’t bother us.

I can’t stop. The more I talk, the more I realize that I’m hearing myself and it’s helping. I say that negativity feeds on itself. He needs to look for something that will give him a little joy, like sailing, or going to the movies, or reading.

“No, that’s not it. You don’t understand.” He seems startled by my response.

I do understand. Every day we’re bombarded with information and images—with adolescents in heavy makeup pretending to be grown women as they advertise miraculous creams promising eternal beauty; with the story of an aging couple who climbed Mount Everest to celebrate their wedding anniversary; with new massage gizmos, and pharmacy windows that are chockablock with slimming products; with movies that give an entirely false impression of reality, and books promising fantastic results; with specialists who give advice about how to succeed in life or find inner peace. And all these things make us feel old, make us feel that we’re leading dull, unadventurous lives as our skin grows ever more flaccid, and the pounds pile on irrevocably. And yet we feel obliged to repress our emotions and our desires, because they don’t fit with what we call “maturity.”

Choose what information you listen to. Place a filter over your eyes and ears and allow in only things that won’t bring you down, because we have our day-to-day life to do that. Do you think I don’t get judged and criticized at work? Well, I do—a lot! But I’ve decided to hear only the things that encourage me to improve, the things that help me correct my mistakes. Otherwise, I will just pretend I can’t hear the other stuff or block it out.

I came here in search of a complicated story involving adultery, blackmail, and corruption. But you’ve dealt with it all in the best possible way. Can’t you see that?

Without thinking, I sit down again and grasp his head so that he can’t escape. I give him a long kiss. He hesitates for a fraction of a second, then responds. Immediately, all my feelings of impotence, fragility, failure, and insecurity are replaced by one of immense euphoria. From one moment to the next, I have suddenly become wise, I have regained control of the situation and dared to do something that before I could only imagine. I have ventured into unknown territory and dangerous waters, destroying pyramids and building sanctuaries.

I am once again the mistress of my thoughts and my actions. What seemed impossible this morning has become reality this afternoon. I can feel again, and I can love something I don’t possess. The wind has ceased to bother me and has become instead a blessing, like the caress of a god on my cheek. I have my soul back.

Hundreds of years seem to pass during the short time the kiss lasts. We separate slowly, and, as he gently strokes my hair, we look deep into each other’s eyes.

And we find exactly what was there before.

Sadness.

Now with the addition of a stupid, irresponsible gesture that, at least in my case, will only make matters worse.

We spend another half an hour together, talking about the city and its inhabitants as if nothing had happened. We seemed very close when we arrived at the park, and we became one when we kissed. Now, however, we are two complete strangers, trying to keep the conversation going just long enough so that we can each go our separate ways without too much embarrassment.

No one saw us—we’re not in a restaurant. Our marriages are safe.

I consider apologizing, but know it’s not necessary. After all, it was only a kiss.