She looked at the mirror and saw he had obviously punched it. She reached for a towel and immediately began examining his knuckles for shards of glass and pulling one sliver from the webbing between his index and forefinger. “Oh Olivier, you can’t just go around punching mirrors.” She pushed his hand under running cold water. “I think you need stitches.”
“It’s fine,” his voice was hoarse. “It doesn’t even hurt.”
“It’s bleeding badly,” she dug around the bathroom looking for something to patch him up with.
“I should have been there,” he said as he watched his blood mix with the water and disappear into down the drain. “Because of Bernard Menard, I missed watching the birth of my children in person. You needed me and I was not there and instead a stranger and his wife bore witness to what
