Learning To Lose Part 7

I'm crazy, right?

Ariel ran his fingers over her cheek. It was soft, spotless. His gesture had something of the way one strokes a child. We're not going to do anything, he said.

Sylvia lowered her head, embarra.s.sed. Ariel wanted to run his fingers over her lips, but he didn't dare. Sylvia trapped a lock of her hair in the corner of her mouth and bit on it. Ariel stroked her hands and pushed away the hair. Why do you do that? I don't know. You don't have to be nervous. Are you comfortable? Do you want anything else? I don't know, another beer...

Ariel's trip to the kitchen gave them both a few seconds. Sylvia leaned back on the sofa. Ariel knows that overly pa.s.sionate kisses reveal the fear that lies behind them. Once he made out for hours with a girl he had met at a concert, they shared incredibly ardent kisses, but she fled in terror when he tried to take her clothes off. That memory, together with Sylvia's spontaneous, fervent kisses, alarmed him. No, he wasn't going to do it. The refrigerator's cold air brought him back to his senses. When he sat down on the sofa he was a few inches further away from Sylvia. Hardly anything, but to her it must have seemed like miles.

It'd probably be best if I take you home, he said, and she nodded. It's twelve-thirty.

My father is going to kill me. Do you have practice early tomorrow?

At ten. When he explained that it was over by one and then he had the afternoon off, Sylvia let out a whistle and said something like, that's the life. Of course I'm a big fan of siesta time, I already was in Buenos Aires. I need to sleep, at least an hour. Then they talked about the game on Sat.u.r.day. In Seville. They were traveling on Friday. It'll be on TV if you want to watch it. I'm not that big a fan, really. I thought you might like to see me...The conversation pa.s.sed like a screen of rain between them. Ariel touched his nose with one finger and Sylvia bit the fingernail on her thumb.

Did you invite me over because you're into me? Sylvia's question brought back the lost heat, her eyes opened like a green sky. I invited you over because I like you...yeah, because I'm into you. But I didn't you bring you here to get you into bed.

Ariel didn't move, kept his distance. She smiled, nervous. Her lips puckered as she drank from the bottle and Ariel wanted to kiss her again. Why was that so crazy? He was only four years older than her, but to Ariel the difference seemed insurmountable. He remembered a teammate telling him that soccer players are like dogs, at thirty we're ancient.

Ariel established some physical distance as a safety barrier. She managed to break it and run her finger over the scar on his eyebrow. War injury, he said, it happened in practice a couple of years ago. It's a pretty brutal exercise, to get you to lose your fear of tackling headfirst. They bounce a ball against the ground between two players who are standing very close together and the winner is the one who manages to head the ball first. You know, those kind of tests designed to see who's got bigger b.a.l.l.s.

Can I see your room?

My room?

Sylvia stood up nimbly. She placed herself in front of him and held out a hand. Ariel hesitated for a second, took it, and got up with her. They left the television on, the movie's music resonating through the living room, and headed upstairs. This way, he said, and she got in front of him. Ariel could make out the bones of her back beneath the wool sweater. The corner of a piece of paper sticking out of the back pocket of her jeans. Ariel bit his lower lip. He pointed to the second door. It was ajar. Sylvia pushed it open, revealing the made bed and the mess of compact discs beside the CD player on the floor. She sat on the bed and chose a CD. He put it on. From the streetlight, an orange glow filtered in, illuminating the room. The walls were bare except for a photograph of the New York skyline in a thin black wood frame. Ariel was embarra.s.sed about that picture, a holdover from the last tenant.

He saw Sylvia take off her sweater and let her hair fall messily over her face. She didn't fix her curls after tossing the sweater on the floor, just scratched them in an ironic gesture.

To be honest, it would be nice if you held me.

Ariel smiled. She acted in such a cerebral way that it was impossible for him to feel uncomfortable. They drew closer together and he put his arms around her shoulders. She sought out his lips and found them.

Sylvia had three worn bracelets on her wrist.

I don't know what we're going to do, but after tonight you don't have to ever see me again if you don't want to. Sylvia tried to remain composed as she spoke. She seemed less nervous than he was. They dropped onto the mattress and their kissing extended into a muddled embrace. She took off his s.h.i.+rt first and kissed his shoulders. Ariel lifted up her s.h.i.+rt and after pulling it over her curls he undid her bra. Sylvia's b.r.e.a.s.t.s gushed out, dominating with their bright whiteness and the vivid pink of their nipples. She seemed to retreat. The process was slow, with pauses. Clothing is always a pain in the neck, it's not designed to look good coming off, thought Ariel.

He unb.u.t.toned the fly of her jeans and she let him do it. He pulled down the fabric that tangled around her thighs. Sylvia drew him up. She didn't want Ariel's face right there in front of her crotch like a neighbor on a narrow street. She hugged him tight, as if she wanted to immobilize him, while she managed to kick her jeans off her ankles. Then he watched as she pulled back the sheets and hurried into the bed. Ariel sat on the edge to take off his clothes.

Do you have any condoms?

Ariel nodded and left the room for a second. Sylvia saw, without wanting to stare, Ariel's supermuscular legs. When they met again beneath the sheets, Sylvia ran her hands over his athletic body. His toasted skin contrasted with Sylvia's whiteness. Her hand, after evasive caresses, reached Ariel's p.e.n.i.s. She didn't go so far as to touch it with her fingers, she backed off and lay down, as if she wanted to be taken without being too aware of what was going to happen.

But Ariel didn't lie on top of Sylvia. He didn't want to ask, are you a virgin? He did bring his hand down to her s.e.x. She was wet and receptive. He touched her delicately, using his middle finger to penetrate her. In a instant, Sylvia closed her eyes and started to melt with pleasure. She grabbed his arm and moaned, until she let out a scream followed quickly by another and then another, more contained, one that made her collapse and open her eyes with a smile. Ariel dropped his head down beside her.

Sylvia recovered the feeling of her own body weight. The moments before she seemed to have somehow been levitating. Ariel tried to make himself comfortable next to her. He placed his arm on the pillow and Sylvia let her neck fall onto it. She covered her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with her arm.

Do you want me to do something to you? asked Sylvia timidly. That's okay. Sylvia took on a comic tone. No, no, it's no problem, while I'm here. Blus.h.i.+ng, she covers her face with the sheet. You must think I'm stupid.

I hope it was lovely for you.

She was surprised by the adjective. No Spaniard would use it. She told Ariel that her friend Mai sometimes said that Argentinians dripped sugar from their mouths when they spoke. It's something about your tone of voice, here everything sounds more aggressive.

Ariel changed the music. It was a female Brazilian voice, that spread gauzily through the room. Music for f.u.c.king. He regretted the choice.

Sylvia caressed his stomach with her hand, then confirmed that he was aroused and she forced herself to jerk him off, even though she found the movements ridiculous, grotesque. Ariel placed his hand around hers and helped her finish.

Then, without them realizing, a very long time pa.s.sed.

Now I really do have to go, announced Sylvia. She sat on the bed and Ariel was turned on by the subtle way she hid her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with her forearm and the sheet. Like in old movies. He watched her start to dress with fiendish speed.

Do you want to take a shower?

I don't want to get home really late.

Sylvia's sweater had ended up on Ariel's side, and as he sat up he held it out to her. Your pullover. Pullover? She smiled. She finished her beer in two sips while Ariel dressed standing.

The car flew along the almost deserted highway. Sylvia lowered the window and stuck out her head. There was a fine mist falling that dampened her face, making her feel refreshed. She didn't tell Ariel that she felt like she had been blus.h.i.+ng for three hours and her skin was burning. Her hair flew out behind her, as if it were going to detach from her head. It felt good. The music played between them. They barely spoke.

Sylvia directed him to her neighborhood. What's this area called? asked Ariel. A charming name, Nuevos Ministerios. I bet you've never been with a girl from Nuevos Ministerios before. What about you? Is this your first time with a guy from Floresta?

Ariel was surprised she didn't lean over to kiss him. A brief brush of the cheeks was the whole good-bye. Sylvia said, thanks, I had a really good time. Me, too. Neither of them dares to say, I'll give you a call. Ariel watches her walk toward the brick doorway. She looks fragile in the middle of the well-lit street. He thought perhaps he'd never see her again. He appreciated the effort Sylvia had made to keep herself from getting carried away by her emotions, holding back her desire to open herself up, to let herself go. It made him respect her even more.

He felt closer to Sylvia when he found the vestiges of her visit while changing the sheets. He thought he had been cold, distant, hard with her. Like someone dealing with bureaucracy. The soccer player who f.u.c.ks the starstruck teenager, hardly making any effort, ignoring anything beyond a new notch on his bedpost. But I didn't f.u.c.k her, he argued in his defense. Maybe it was worse that he let her jack him off for such a long time; he even had to make an effort to come so that it wouldn't be humiliating. He tossed the sheets into the was.h.i.+ng machine. He waited for it to start running. He didn't want Emilia snooping around and asking for explanations.

In his dream, he saw Sylvia's hair, placed over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, almost completely covering them. He remembered Sylvia's total stillness after her o.r.g.a.s.m, not daring to take the next step and reveal having rushed things, and being afraid, regretful. In that moment he wanted to see her again and show her the warmth he hadn't that night.

At practice the ball moves from one teammate to the next and Ariel seems unable to intercept it. At one point the coach approaches the group and in a curt tone says, get with the program, Ariel.

He understands that the coach isn't referring to that play in particular but to his performance in general. And he feels hurt. He is embarra.s.sed to not be focusing, not be devoting himself completely to the team.

As he leaves the field, he signs some autographs for a group of schoolkids waiting behind the fence. One of the girls shouts, you're so handsome, and Ariel looks up at her. Her p.u.b.escent face is not quite settled, it's in that somewhat monstrous transitional phase, not yet fully formed. She's surrounded by a gang of her girlfriends, hysterical and shrieking. He doesn't like the group. They've lost that childish charm that can do no wrong. He again remembers his teammate comparing soccer players' lives to dogs'. Our masters outlive us, too.

By that point, he had decided not to see Sylvia again. Distance himself. It is her maturity, unthinkable in a sixteen-year-old, even though it seems like an act, that scares him most about her, that makes her even more dangerous.

9.

At six in the evening that Sat.u.r.day, the sun had yet to s.h.i.+ne. It would be one of those rare days where it never appears. Sylvia had arrived at her grandmother's house a little while earlier. Aurora's smile beneath her damp eyes made up for the lazy waste of an afternoon. Mai had gone back to Leon to spend the weekend, determined to save a relations.h.i.+p she said was heading downhill on the fast track. Their three days in Vienna had been as intense as they were grueling. She had gotten hit by one of the riot policemen's swinging nightsticks and it had fractured her collarbone. Besides a huge bruise, big like a burn, which she proudly displayed, she had spent forty-eight hours in observation in a hospital on the outskirts of the city. She cursed Mateo because he had barely shown any concern for her. This wasn't meant to be our honeymoon, he had said.

The hospital was some kind of jail for people with minor injuries. An Italian with a broken arm, a Greek guy poisoned by a smoke grenade, an American girl with her ankle destroyed by a rubber bullet. It was some sort of veiled incarceration. There, more than twenty-five miles from Vienna, there was no way they were getting back to the protest. And I didn't have my cell phone charger, she whined. That's why I didn't write you, to save battery juice in case Mateo called me. Mai recognized that as selfish, and useless because he didn't even call, and it made her angry at herself. She told Sylvia every last detail of her adventure.

I felt stupid, abandoned. Luckily there was an anarchist from Logrono, really funny and really fat, who had me cracking up the whole time. They had given him fifteen st.i.tches in his head and he wasn't complaining. We really hit it off. He kept telling me, don't complain, just imagine, being an anarchist in Logrono is like selling combs on Mars. Once I jumped into the ring at a bullfight during the San Roque festival to protest animal torture and demand they put a stop to bullfighting, I was with three or four more environmentalists and that was an honest to G.o.d beatdown, yes sir. Plus we were buck naked and one of my t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es ascended from a swift kick, do you have any idea how much that hurts?

In the hospital, after confessing her doubts to the fat anarchist from Logrono, she had resolved to break up with Mateo, but they reconciled on the trip back. Twenty hours on a bus would bring anybody closer, said Mai. In spite of her exhaustion, Mateo's hands beneath the blanket had skillfully saved their relations.h.i.+p. Or at least that was what she insinuated with a crooked smile. Girl, I have the feeling our relations.h.i.+p is purely physical.

Sylvia had wanted to tell her about her night with Ariel, but she never found the right moment. She was afraid of Mai. She talked too much. And if someone at school found out about something like this, they could make her life impossible. In that setting, not doing anything worth talking about was a virtue. Anybody who stood out ran the risk of having rumors made up about them. Like that poor sophmore girl who they swore was charging for b.l.o.w.j.o.bs in the boys' bathroom, and half the school said she had disappeared because she couldn't take the lie and the other half because her parents had found out it was true. No, it was better to keep your mouth shut. Every time she got over her reluctance and decided to talk to Mai about it, she luckily found her friend still caught up in her own problems. What do you think, is going to see him this weekend a sign I'm totally whipped, or do you think it's okay for me to fight to keep the relations.h.i.+p from going to s.h.i.+t?

Sylvia's reply was laconic. Go.

She missed her first cla.s.s the day after her night with Ariel. She put up with her father's anger, his scolding for how late she got home. On her way to cla.s.s, she checked her cell phone messages, but there was no news from Ariel. Then she remembered his frostiness. She had forced the outcome. He had resisted and she had taken him to the bedroom. He hadn't done anything to keep her there when she wanted to leave in a hurry. He didn't even kiss her when they said goodnight on the street. They barely spoke when he drove her home. It was all strange. Icy.

She had felt dirty, stupid, getting dressed quickly in front of him, with his still-warm s.e.m.e.n staining the sheets. She was embarra.s.sed at the absurd swaying of her enormous b.r.e.a.s.t.s as she readjusted her bra. And her woman's scent. Ariel hadn't even wanted to make love to her, take her virginity, which she was sure was obvious. It may as well have been broadcast by a PA system installed in her face, judging from the way she acted. That clumsy handjob she had tried to satisfy him with must have seemed like a hysterical attempt to hide her adolescent spinelessness. Every once in a while, she thought of a few minor positive signs. She remembered his hands and skin, his defenseless gesture as he brimmed over, the electrical charge that went through his thigh, his tensed muscles. The pleasure of stroking the bones of his back, of feeling his prominent ribs. She, in comparison, seemed all flabby. Any temptation to send him a message, to remind him of the night before, went up in smoke when she a.s.sessed how she had acted, half brazen and half prude.

The more time pa.s.sed without word from Ariel, the more fatalistic and bleak her version of the events became. I'm just some stupid little girl stuck on a famous soccer player. As if she had a right, in compensation for the accident, to something more than the insurance indemnity.

On Friday Sylvia couldn't take it anymore and in a fit of bravery and heartache she sent him a message. "Good luck with the game." Artificial but neutral. He didn't answer right away. "We'll talk when I get back. Thanks." The thanks reduced the promise, almost to the level of a business transaction. Thanks. It sounded more like a handshake than a kiss. More like goodbye than welcome back. It would have been the final straw if the night he brought her home he had stuck out his hand and said, my pleasure, see you around. And if you want an autographed T-s.h.i.+rt I can have it sent to your house. If she was tempted, as she sometimes was, to convert Ariel into the love of her life, she could now start acknowledging her failure. She could tell herself, I've lost the man I love.

That night she went out with friends from school. This is what I should be doing, she thought. I should be out on packed streets and not in luxury homes in the suburbs, elegant restaurants, adult bedrooms. A bench overloaded with kids, mixing alcohols, thunderously loud music oozed from dive bars as if it were overflowing, tangled hair, elusive eyes, low-slung jeans, exaggerated laughter, some girls so made-up they look like clowns in heat, boys with their hands in their pockets, friends who slap each other on the back, girls who cover their legs and hips, one group beside another, in some sort of chain that extends along the street, parting reluctantly to let a car through.

In the plaza where they wanted to sit down, a couple of policemen were asking for ID and trying to scare off six inebriated Romanians who were sitting on a dirty bench crammed with bottles and plastic cups in the kiddie park. Inside the bars there was hardly enough room to reach the attractive waitresses who moved along the length of the bar, attending to customers whose eyes they barely met. Her cla.s.smates joked around, talking about school, laughing at some teacher, or some student. Nico Veron imitated the math teacher's stiff neck. The same old nostalgia for what had happened just the day before. They listened to the music and waited for someone to say, should we move on? before changing bars.

Her father was nervous all Sat.u.r.day morning. He spent it rearranging the living room. He was trying to straighten the bookshelf that sagged under the weight of the encyclopedia. He set the table very early, more like English lunchtime, and Sylvia cooked for them both. She had gotten up late. She wasn't hungry or in good spirits. She asked her father if he was going to the game even though she knew full well his team was playing in Seville.

Before leaving for her grandparents' house, she studied herself in front of the mirror. Even after a shower, her hair still smelled of last night's cigarette smoke. They say that losing your virginity changes your facial expression. Was Ariel's finger enough? Was that it? Was that how it happens? Finally she touches her not-fully-formed jaw. Her cheekbones weren't in sync either. They were still, if you asked her, stuck in that childish rounded shape that made her look perennially fat. Perhaps in her eyes one could make out a vague, fleeting expression, somewhat more mature and adult. As if she were better acquainted with a certain truth. Mai was right when she insisted that boys want to love you, but they run from you. She said it like this: they might have their hands on your t.i.ts, but their feet are already about to start running away. They flee. Sylvia wasn't going to block Ariel from fleeing. Or hold him back. The sooner they resolved this absurd accidental relations.h.i.+p, the better. But it was nice, right? she asked herself every once in a while. It was as if she wanted to at least retain the pleasant memory. When he brought her home, she noticed his hand tense on the automatic gears.h.i.+ft. She wanted to caress his fingers, inviting him to relax, but she didn't do it.

Grandma Aurora's smile helps her forget about him. Grandpa Leandro leaves them alone after a little while, to go take his afternoon stroll. They played a game of checkers on the bedspread and halfway through all the pieces slipped off the board and they didn't care enough to start over. You remember when we used to play dolls in your bed and we totally destroyed it?

I'm thinking about cutting my hair, announces Sylvia. Her grandmother tries to get her to change her mind. But it's so pretty. Yeah, but it's a pain in the a.s.s, she says. No matter how I do it, it always looks bad. Aurora strokes her hair and pulls it back. Recently washed, it seems thicker after drying outside in the breeze.

I used to have hair like yours, but I always wore it pulled back. One time I wanted to cut it and your grandfather, who was the only one who had seen it down, practically the only one, asked me why. It's a lot of work, I explained. Taking care of the paintings at the Prado is a lot of work, too, he told me, and n.o.body considers throwing them away.

Sylvia smiled and looked up at her grandmother.

Your grandfather always had those blunt ways of saying lovely things. He's still that way. Now he says fewer things, that's true, she concedes with an expression of melancholy. The day will come when you decide to cut off your curls, but don't do it because you're in a bad mood.

Aurora's efforts soon wore her out. Do you want me to read to you? No, talk to me, she answered. Sylvia didn't know what to say. She tells her that these last few days, when she tries to read, she turns the pages without getting anything. After three pages, I have to go back and start again, she says.

What's in your head?

Sylvia doesn't tell her, although she'd like to. They talk about her upcoming exams. Her grandmother asks about Lorenzo. If he goes out, if he's taking care of himself, if he spends much time with his friends. Then she says that she and Grandpa have never been good at keeping up friends.h.i.+ps. He doesn't care, he enjoys being alone, but sometimes I miss having people around. Your grandfather loves Manolo Almendros, but he never calls him. It's Manolo who has to call, to come over with his wife to spend an afternoon or for lunch once in a while, and he calls me first to make sure it's not a bother and so I can stock up on the chocolates he likes.

She points out a nearby jewelry case for Sylvia to bring over. They go through the pieces inside. Her grandmother explains the history of a watch and a pendant. This is a bracelet your grandfather gave me in a fit of romanticism, one of those very rare moments when we seemed like a normal couple. If you like something, I'll give it to you, for you to keep.

Sylvia is disturbed by the idea of inheriting something while her grandmother is still alive. She holds some earrings up to her ears but puts them back in the box. Where would she go with them on?

Some day you'll have to dress up...Of course, now you kids go around with rings in your nose and belly b.u.t.tons. Boy, have things changed. And in other places, Grandma, in other places too...Tell me...Really? Okay, there are girls who pierce their tongues, and their c.l.i.torises. Their what? A ring? Yeah, or a little silver ball. Doesn't it hurt when they...? I don't think so. No, of course, it must be some tribal thing, thinks Aurora out loud, as if coming out of her shock.

A little while later, her grandmother falls asleep. Sylvia reads over the notes from history cla.s.s that she has in her backpack. Her grandfather comes in from the street, his hair mussed by the wind and his face chapped from the cold. Sylvia has supper with them and then walks back home.

Sat.u.r.day nights depress her, it's like there's some obligation to have a good time. At the door to a car, three young men are putting on sixteenth-century costumes for their university musical group. One of them is bald and has a potbelly; his body is like a mandolin. Further on is a boy crying on a curb, the girl beside him holding his gla.s.ses and trying to console him. Her eyes meet Sylvia's, and she takes it to mean that the girl has just broken up with him.

She lies down on the sofa to watch the game on TV. Ariel is grabbed by a defender who sticks to him like glue. When he throws Ariel to the ground, the referee complains, gesturing for him to get up without stopping the game. Sylvia finds the referee ridiculous, as if he belonged to a different reality than the players. He looks like an uptight, aristocratic gentleman, with an impossible string of eccentric last names. They must be chosen for their freaky last names, she thinks. This one's called Poblano Berrueco.

Ariel's jersey was pulled out of his shorts by the grab. It's astonis.h.i.+ng how small he looks next to the defender marking him, as if he were a child. When he runs, his hair rises up, straight with sweat.

All the commentators do is point out the jersey number in possession of the ball and highlight obvious idiocies. One of them says that a goal would change the score. The other that the tie only shows neither team is superior. With seven minutes to go, Ariel falls in the goal area and the referee awards a penalty kick. The commentators argue, let's see the replay. Sylvia thinks it was Ariel who sought out the fullback's leg and let himself fall. She's amused by his faking it. Is he like that in everything? she wonders.

The goal is scored by another player. A st.u.r.dy Brazilian defender, who's old enough to be the rest of the team's father. Ariel is subst.i.tuted. When he steps over the side line he exchanges an affectionate smack with his teammate heading onto the pitch. The camera shows Ariel walking toward the bench. He lowers his socks and gets a pat on the back from the coach. He is soaked in sweat when he sits down and he covers himself with a sweats.h.i.+rt. The commentator says, this kid needs to adapt to being here so he can really open up the bag of tricks he's surely got in him. Sylvia thinks that maybe he'll be a real star soon. One of his teammates whispers something into his ear and Ariel smiles.

There is an American movie on after the game. Sylvia doesn't feel like getting up off the sofa. A guy spends ten years of his life in prison for a crime he didn't commit. When he gets out, his only obsession is finding the real culprit. Her father comes home during the eighth fight. He sits down next to Sylvia for a while. He looks tired, sad.

Your team won, Sylvia tells him.

Lorenzo nods. In the movie, the man is punching three mean-looking guys who have cornered him in an alley. When Sylvia gets up to go to bed, he says, turn it off, turn it off, I'm going to sleep, too.

Sylvia puts on her headphones and sings above the music. She feels like masturbating but she doesn't. She falls asleep with the headphones on. She'll take them off later with a swipe of her hand. On the bedside table lies her cell phone, recharging. Silent.

At dawn she feels alone. And cold. She twists and turns in bed. Finally she breaks out in sobs, hugging the pillow. She stifles herself against it.

On Sunday she calls her mother. She had gone with Santiago to a conference in Cordoba and on the way back she stopped in Madrid so they could have lunch together. They talk about exams and about work with Santiago. Pilar looks happy. She jokes with Sylvia about boys. I scare boys, she says. It must be the hair.

Santiago shows up at the end to pick up Pilar. He brought a couple of books for Sylvia, and he takes them out of his satchel. Do you have these already? Sylvia flips through them and shakes her head. I only wish I had read them when I was sixteen like you are now, but then all I wanted to do was play basketball, he says.

When they say good-bye, Pilar's hug is over the top. Sylvia's grateful for it, but s.h.i.+es away. Her mother rubs her back, as if she wanted to convey something she doesn't know how to say. Take care of yourself, okay, please. Can she tell I'm sad? thinks Sylvia.

That afternoon she starts reading the thickest of the books. There is nothing in it that makes her think of Ariel. The plot is too distant from her life. On page seventeen, she closes it. She opens the other one. "I've always felt drawn to places where I've lived, my old houses and neighborhoods."

From the living room, she hears the murmur of the radio. Her father is listening to Back-to-Back Sports Back-to-Back Sports. Goals and incidents on every field, interlaced with advertising geared toward men. It's not hard for Sylvia to figure out why Sunday afternoons are so sad.

Mai will interrupt her shortly with a call from the bus. I broke up with Mateo, I can't take it anymore. He decided to move to Barcelona. You think I'm gonna waste my time with a guy who makes plans without including me? What difference does it make to you if he lives in Barcelona or in Leon? Sylvia will ask her. It's not that, man, it's the thought behind it, f.u.c.k. Couples are supposed to want to share everything with each other, isn't that the point?

Mai will talk for a while longer on the other end of the line. Sylvia won't pay much attention to her. Finally, almost out of obligation, her friend will ask her, and how are you?

I've been better, Sylvia will respond. Honestly, I've been better.

10.

Leandro doesn't walk, he flees. He turns the corner onto a deserted street and now he's coming out at the intersection that crosses Arturo Soria. He goes down the wide sidewalk until he gets to the bus stop. Leandro quickly regrets his decision. The madam had greeted him with even more of a lipsticked smile than usual. She led him into the little reception room to tell him, we've had a little problem with your check from the other day. It bounced.

Leandro was surprised. He wasn't expecting to hear that. She downplayed the incident. Leandro didn't have cash on him and he offered to write a new check. Anything not to leave a trail on his credit card. I told you before I prefer cash, the woman warned. Just two blocks away there's an ATM. In that case, I'll come back some other day, threatened Leandro.

Okay, okay, we're not going to start losing trust in you over some little accident, are we now?

Mari Luz accepted the signed check that Leandro extended with a trembling hand. She had left the room while he was writing it. She would have hesitated if she had seen how shaky he was. She brought him the returned check from the bank and added a mechanical, almost insulting, I'll go call Valentina right away. He said, today I'd rather have a different one. He said, it just like that, without thinking about it too much. I just feel like a change today. Okay, I'll have the girls come through. Have a seat. Would you like something to drink?

Leandro shook his head and sat on the sofa after taking off his coat. It was hot.

He didn't give much thought to choosing. He asked the first one who came in to go up with him. She was Slavic, with shoulder-length blond hair, willowy, not much chest on her. They went to a room. She promptly undressed and then she undressed him. The shower ritual was different this time, and the girl indicated he should sit on the bidet. There she washed his p.e.n.i.s and a.s.shole with shower gel, as if she were finis.h.i.+ng up the day's dishes. She spoke good Spanish although her voice was dissonant, running out of steam halfway through her sentences. She tried to act nice. She switched with him and sat astride the bidet, rubbing her shaved pubis with a hand full of white foam.