The Rules of The Game (Renoir, 1939)

Our love is honest, and lovely, with the tenderness of a dull blade. What grace we display, hand in hand, our vacant smiles, and uncaring glances from the corners of our eyes. Your body covered in silk, oh what a fantastic sight, like a drugstore postcard. I admire you for loving my flaws. Loneliness and desperation is without judgment, but yours is done with conviction. Our love is  like a dangling conversation, swinging between the separate beds of my spouse and I.

We will fulfill our love’s yearnings soon. We will test the long wonderment of the grass being greener, you and I, pushing further into the dark. My love, we will do our best to muffle our laughter in the face of convention, but our mouths will burst and spit like devious children. What great fun this will be, our clever ruse becoming real, but for now I am famished. Shall we go for lunch?