The Things We Don't Do

HAPPINESS

MY NAME IS MARCOS. I always wanted to be Cristóbal. I don’t mean I wanted to be called Cristóbal. Cristóbal is my friend; I was going to say my best friend, but I have to confess he is the only one.

Gabriela is my wife. She loves me a lot and sleeps with Cristóbal.

He is intelligent, self-assured, an agile dancer. He also rides. Is proficient at Latin grammar. Cooks for women. Then eats them for lunch. I would say that Gabriela is his favourite dish.

Some uninformed person might think my wife is betraying me: nothing could be further from the truth. I have always wanted to be Cristóbal, but I do not simply stand there watching. I practise not being Marcos. I take dancing lessons and pore over my student textbooks. I am well aware my wife adores me. So much so that the poor thing sleeps with him, with the man I wish to be. Nestling against Cristóbal’s muscular chest, my Gabriela is anxiously awaiting me, arms open wide.

Such patience on her behalf thrills me. I only hope my efforts meet her expectations, and that one day soon our moment will come. That moment of unswerving love that she has been preparing so diligently, cheating on Cristóbal, getting accustomed to his body, his character and his tastes, so that she will be as comfortable and happy as can be when I am like him and we leave him all alone.

A LINE IN THE SAND

RUTH WAS making mountains with her foot. She dug her big toe into the warm sand, formed small mounds, tidied them, carefully smoothed them with the ball of her foot, contemplated them for a moment. Then she demolished them. And began all over again. Her insteps were reddish, they glowed like solar stones. Her nails were painted from the night before.

Jorge was digging out the umbrella, or trying to. Someone should buy a new one, he muttered as he grappled with it. Ruth pretended not to be listening, but she couldn’t help feeling annoyed. It was a trivial remark like any other, of course. Jorge clicked his tongue and jerked his hand away from the umbrella: he had pinched his finger in one of the struts. A trivial remark, Ruth reflected, but the point was he hadn’t said “we should buy”, but rather “someone should buy”. In one go, Jorge managed to fold the umbrella, and stood there staring at it, hands on hips, as if awaiting some final response from a vanquished creature. Arbitrary or not, there it was, he had said “someone” and not “we”, Ruth thought.

Jorge held the umbrella poised. The tip was streaked with tongues of rust and caked in wet sand. He glanced at Ruth’s miniature mountains. Then his eyes rested on her feet blistered from her sandals, moved up her legs to her belly, lingered on the folds gathered round her navel, his gaze continued up her torso, passed between her breasts as though crossing a bridge, leapt to her mass of salty hair, and finally slid down to Ruth’s eyes. Jorge realized that, reclining in her deckchair, shading her eyes with one hand, she had been observing him for some time as well. He felt slightly embarrassed without knowing quite why, and he smiled, wrinkling his nose. Ruth thought this gesture was exaggerated, because he was not facing the purple sun. Jorge raised the umbrella like an unwieldy trophy.

“So, are you going to help me?” he asked in a voice that sounded ironic even to him, less benign than he had intended. He wrinkled his nose again, turned his gaze to the sea for an instant, and then heard Ruth’s startling reply:

“Don’t move.”

Ruth was gripping a wooden racket. The edge of the racket was resting on her thighs.

“Do you want the ball?” Jorge asked.

“I want you not to move,” she said.

Ruth lifted the racket, sat up straight and reached out an arm in order to slowly trace a line in the sand. It was not a very even line, about a metre long, separating Ruth from her husband. When she had finished drawing it, she let go of the racket, lay back in the deckchair and crossed her legs.

“Very pretty,” Jorge said, half-curious and half-irritated.

“Do you like it?” Ruth replied. “Then don’t cross it.”

A damp breeze was beginning to rise on the beach, or Jorge noticed it at that moment. He had no wish to drop the umbrella and the other stuff he was carrying over his shoulder. But above all he had no desire whatsoever to start playing silly games. He was tired. He hadn’t slept much. His skin felt sweaty, gritty. He was in a hurry to shower and go out and have dinner.

“I don’t understand,” said Jorge.

“I can imagine,” said Ruth.

“Hey, are we going or not?”

“You can do what you want. But don’t cross the line.”

“What do you mean, don’t cross it?”

“I see you understand now!”

Jorge dropped the things; he was surprised they made so much noise as they landed on the sand. Ruth jumped slightly, but didn’t stir from her deckchair. Jorge examined the line from left to right as if something were written on it. He took a step towards Ruth. He saw how she tensed and clutched the arms of the chair.

“This is a joke, right?”

“This couldn’t be more serious.”

“Look, darling,” he said, halting at the line. “What’s the matter with you? What are you doing? Can’t you see everyone else is leaving? It’s late. It’s time to go. Why can’t you be reasonable?”

“Am I not reasonable because I’m not leaving when everyone else does?”

“You’re not reasonable because I don’t know what’s the matter with you.”

“Ah! How interesting!”

“Ruth…” Jorge sighed, making as if to go over and touch her. “Do you want us to stay a bit longer?”

“All I want,” she said, “is for you to stay on that side.”

“On what side, damn it?”

“On that side of the line.”

Ruth recognized a flash of anger in Jorge’s sceptical smile. It was only a fleeting twitch of his cheek, a hint of indignation he was able to control by feigning condescension; but there it was. Now she had him. It suddenly seemed it was now or never.

“Jorge. This is my line, do you understand?”

“This is absurd,” he said.

“Quite possibly. That’s the point.”

“Come on, hand me the things. Let’s go for a walk.”

“Whoa there. Stay back.”

“Forget about the line and let’s go!”

“It’s mine.”

“You’re being childish, Ruth. I’m tired…”

“Tired of what? Go on, say it: tired of what?”

Jorge folded his arms and arched backwards, as if he had been pushed by a gust of wind. He saw the trap coming and decided to be direct.

“That’s unfair. You’re taking my words literally. Or worse: you interpret them figuratively when they hurt you, and take them literally when it suits you.”

“Really? Is that what you think, Jorge?”

“Just now, for example, I told you I was tired and you play the victim. You act like I’d said ‘I’m tired of you’, and…”

“And isn’t that deep down what you wanted to say? Think about it. It might even be a good thing. Go on, say it. I have things to say to you too. What is it you’re so tired of?”

“Not like this, Ruth.”

“Like what? Talking? Being honest?”

“I can’t talk this way,” Jorge replied, slowly picking up the things once more.

“Over and out,” she said, her eyes straying towards the waves.

Jorge suddenly let go of the things and made as if to seize Ruth’s chair. She reacted by raising her arm in a gesture of self-defence. He realized she was deadly serious and stopped in his tracks, just as he was about to cross the line. There it was. He was touching it with the tips of his toes. He considered taking another step. Trampling the sand. Rubbing his feet in it and putting a stop to all this. His own cautiousness made Jorge feel stupid. His shoulders were tense, hunched. But he didn’t move.

“Will you stop this already?” he said.

He instantly regretted having phrased the question in that way.

“Stop what?” Ruth asked, with a painfully satisfied smile.

“I mean this interrogation! This interrogation and this ridiculous line!”

“If our conversation bothers you that much, we can end it right here. And if you want to go home, carry on, enjoy your dinner. But the line is non-negotiable. It isn’t ridiculous and don’t cross it. Don’t go there. I’m warning you.”

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I do, unfortunately,” Ruth replied.

Disconcerted, Jorge noted the frankness of her retort. He bent down to pick the things up again, muttering inaudible words. He rummaged vigorously through the contents of the basket. Rearranging the bottles of suntan lotion several times, piling up the magazines furiously, folding the towels again. For a moment, Ruth thought Jorge had tears in his eyes. But she saw him gradually regain his composure until he asked, looking straight at her:

“Are you testing me, Ruth?”

Ruth remarked that the almost shocking naivety of his question brought back an echo of his former dignity: as though Jorge could make a mistake, but not lie to her; as if he were capable of every type of disloyalty except for malice. She saw him squatting, bewildered, at her feet, his shoulders about to start peeling, his hair thinner than a few years ago, familiar and strange. She felt a sudden desire both to attack and to protect him.

“You go round bossing people about,” she said, “yet you live in fear of being judged. I find that rather sad.”

“No kidding. How profound. And what about you?”

“Me? You mean what are my contradictions? Am I aware of always making the same mistakes? Yes. All the time. Of course I am. To start with, I’m stupid. And a coward. And too anxious to please. And I pretend I could live in a way I can’t. Come to think of it, I’m not sure what is worse: not to be aware of certain things, or to be aware but not to do anything. That’s precisely why I drew that line, you see? Yes. It’s childish. It’s small and badly drawn. And it’s the most important thing I’ve done all summer.”

Jorge gazed past Ruth into the distance, as though following the trail of her words, shaking his head with a gesture that veered between dismay and incredulity. Then his face froze in a mocking expression. He started to laugh. His laughter sounded like coughing.

“Have you nothing to say? Not bullying any more?” Ruth said.

“You’re so impulsive.”

“Do you think what I’m saying to you is impulsive?”

“I don’t know,” he said, standing up straight. “Maybe not exactly impulsive. But you’re definitely proud.”

“This isn’t simply a question of pride, Jorge, it’s about principles.”

“You know something? You may defend a lot of principles, be as analytical as you like, think yourself terribly brave, but what you’re actually doing is hiding behind a line. Hiding! So do me a favour, rub it out, collect your things, and we’ll talk about this calmly over dinner. I’m going to cross. I’m sorry. There’s a limit to everything. Even my patience.”

Ruth leapt up like a spring being released, knocking over the deckchair. Jorge pulled up before having taken a step.

“You’re damn right there’s a limit to everything!” she yelled. “And of course you’d like me to hide. Only don’t count on it this time. You don’t want dinner: you want a truce. Well, you’re not getting one, you hear me, you’re not getting one until you accept once and for all that this line will be rubbed out when I say so, and not when you run out of patience.”

“I can’t believe you’re being such a tyrant. And then you complain about me. You’re not allowing me to come close. I don’t do that to you.”

“Jorge. My love. Listen,” Ruth said, lowering her voice, brushing her fringe into place, putting the chair back up and sitting down again. “I want you to listen to me, okay? There isn’t one line. There are two, do you understand? There are always two. I see yours. Or at least I try to see it. I know it’s there, somewhere. I have a suggestion. If you think it’s unfair that this line is rubbed out when I say so, then make another. It’s easy. There’s your racket. Draw a line!”

Jorge guffawed.

“I’m serious, Jorge. Explain your rules. Show me your territory. Say to me: don’t step beyond this line. You’ll see that I never try to rub it out.”

“Very clever! Of course you wouldn’t rub it out, because it would never occur to me to draw a line like that.”

“But let’s say you did, how far would it reach? I need to know.”

“It wouldn’t reach anywhere. I don’t like superstitions. I prefer to behave naturally. I like to be free to go where I want. To quarrel when there’s a reason for it.”

“All I want is for you to look a little bit beyond your own territory.”

“All I want is for you to love me,” he replied.

Ruth blinked a few times. She rubbed her eyes with both hands, as though trying to wipe away the damp breeze that had been buffeting her that afternoon.

“That’s the most awful answer you could have given me,” said Ruth.

Jorge considered going over to console her and thought he had better not. His back was stinging. His muscles were aching. The sea had swallowed the orb of the sun. Ruth covered her face. Jorge lowered his eyes. He looked once more at the line: he thought it seemed much longer than a metre.

ANABELA AND THE ROCK

WHO DARES to swim to El Cerrito? asked Anabela, her face, I don’t know, like something moist and very bright. I imagine a cookie as big as the sun, an enormous cookie dipped in the sea. That’s sort of what Anabela’s face looked like when she asked us.

Nobody dares? she insisted, but I don’t know what face she made then because my eyes slid further down. Her bathing suit was green, green like I don’t know what, I can’t think of an example right now. It was light green and the top was sort of pinched in the middle.

Anabela was always laughing at us. And that was okay, because she was two, or maybe three years older than we were, she was almost a woman, and we, well, we were staring at the top of her bathing suit. It was worth having her laugh at us, because her shoulders went up and down and the light green material moved around inside as well.

Since no one replied, Anabela folded her arms. And that was bad, because now we could no longer see anything and had to look at each other and notice our fear of the water and our irritation at not being good enough for Anabela. Good enough for, I don’t know, those big waves, like the ones the older boys surfed, and then we realized that only one of them could make Anabela happy. Except that she never took any notice of them, which made us even more confused.

Every afternoon, Anabela would swim out on her own to El Cerrito, a dry rock about two kilometres east. We couldn’t go there. Well, we could, but we weren’t allowed, because it was dangerous and besides they said strange things went on over there, like naked people sunbathing and other stuff. It took nearly an hour of long, hard swimming to get to the rock, and made us a bit nervous to watch Anabela plunge in, to watch her head appear and disappear until it became, I don’t know, a buoy, a speck, nothing. She would swim over there, sunbathe for a while, two of us reckoned without the top half of her bathing suit on, and three others reckoned with nothing on at all, and at sunset she would come back in a motorboat, because there was always someone with a motorboat coming back to the beach. That was the worst part, we all agreed, of her going off on her own. We all felt sure nothing bad would happen to her on the way there, she was older and very fast, she was a really strong swimmer and always knew what to do. Besides, Anabela was amazing at floating, when she got tired she would lie on her back, her arms and legs spread wide apart, and she could stay like that, almost asleep, as long as she wanted, like a mermaid or, I don’t know, a green lifebelt, with only her mouth, nose and toes poking out. And pointy bits in the top of her bathing suit. It was the journey back from the rock that worried us, because some scoundrel, that’s what my dad said, some scoundrel in the boat might, I don’t know. My dad didn’t say what.

Anabela scoffed and turned her back on us. In fact, I think she had only asked for the sake of it, she already knew none of us had the nerve to swim that far. Not just because we were afraid of El Cerrito, but because of the awful punishment our parents had threatened us with if we dared go. And what about Anabela’s parents? Did she have their permission? It’s funny, because I had never thought about it before that afternoon. I had imagined she must have, or had imagined nothing at all. Nothing. Anabela was tall, and very fast, who could forbid Anabela anything? When I saw her walk once more to the water’s edge that afternoon, when I saw her move, I don’t know, in that way she had, I felt something tremendous there, between my stomach and sternum. Until suddenly Anabela heard a voice, and I heard that voice too and I realized it was mine telling her: I’ll go with you.

It was a burning sensation down there.

Anabela turned towards us in surprise. She shrugged, the light bouncing off her shoulders, I don’t know, like a beach ball, it rolled down her arms and all she said was: All right. Let’s go.

The others looked at me, I know for sure, with more envy than fear, and I even suspected one of them was going to tell tales on me to my dad. Was I doing the right thing? But there was no time for hesitation, because Anabela’s suntanned arm was already tugging at mine, her yellow down was guiding me to the sea, and her feet and mine made the pebbles crunch at the water’s edge, that was happening now and it was almost impossible to believe. Then I had the feeling I had been born and learned to swim and spent the summer holidays at that beach just for this, to perceive that moment, I don’t say experience it because in that instant it wasn’t happening to me, it was happening to somebody else. I saw myself take my first strokes behind Anabela’s thrashing legs, Anabela’s feet that went in and out of the water. My friends were yelling, it made no difference.

I don’t know how far we swam. The sun was blinding us, we could no longer hear voices from the beach, only the sound of the waves and the seagulls. We felt a mixture of cold and heat, the current was pulling us along and I was happy. When we set out, the first few minutes, I had only thought about what I was going to say to Anabela, how I should behave when we reached the rock. But then everything started getting wet, I don’t know, sort of going soggy, my head too, and I stopped thinking and I realized this was it, we were together, we were swimming as if we were speaking. From time to time, Anabela would turn her head to make sure I was still following her, and I tried to keep my head up high and smile at her, swallowing salty water, so that she saw I could keep up with her, although the truth was I couldn’t. We only stopped for a rest twice, the second time because I asked her, and I felt a bit ashamed. She floated and taught me how to play dead, she explained exactly what you have to do with your stomach and lungs in order to stay afloat, like a lilo. I thought I was no good at it, but she congratulated me and laughed like, I don’t know what, and I thought about kissing her and I laughed too and I swallowed water. That’s when I decided that instead of telling my friends how things had gone, instead of boasting about every detail, which is what I had planned to do at first, I wasn’t going to tell them anything. Not a word. I was just going to remain silent, smiling, triumphant, with a knowing look on my face, like Anabela, in order to let them imagine whatever they liked.

I don’t know how far we swam altogether, but El Cerrito was close, or it looked close. It was a while since we had stopped the second time. I felt exhausted, Anabela was relaxed. I was no longer enjoying myself, I had only one mission, to keep going, keep going, to push with my arms, my stomach, my neck, everything. That’s why it is so difficult to explain what happened, it was all very quick or very invisible. Every second stroke I rolled my head half out of the water, glanced at the rock and calculated how far we had left to go, and to take my mind off my tiredness I started to count Anabela’s fast kicks and my own heartbeat. It was because I was counting Anabela’s kicks, that I was so surprised when I paused for a moment, saw the rock ahead of me and didn’t see her. She was simply gone. As if she had never been there. I turned in circles a few times, arms flailing, swinging my head from side to side. I saw myself in mid-ocean, miles from the beach, still a long way from El Cerrito, floating in the midst of silence, with no sign of Anabela. And I felt, I don’t know, doubly frightened. Not just because I was alone. But because I realized that for a good while I had been counting my own kicks.

I cried out a few times, the way she had perhaps cried out when I hadn’t heard her or had mistaken her cries for seagulls, I don’t know. But crying out exhausted me as well, and it made my body ache. I realized if I wanted to have the slightest chance of reaching the rock I had no choice but to be quiet, calm down, stifle my terror and keep swimming. Move forward and keep swimming, nothing more. This time I didn’t count, I didn’t think, I didn’t feel anything.

I swam until I lost all sense of time, as if I were part of the sea.

By the time I reached the shore of El Cerrito, the waves were dragging me along almost with no resistance. My body was one thing and I was another, I don’t know. I don’t remember much about it. My head was spinning, I could hardly see, I was gasping so much no air came out, it only went in. My blood was going to explode, my arms and legs felt hollow or, I don’t know, like a deflated lilo. Sprawled amid the rocks, I heard voices approach, I saw or thought I saw several naked men around me, suddenly I felt like going to sleep, someone touched my chest, I was drifting off, air started coming out of my mouth, I made an effort, I opened my eyes and now, yes, I thought about Anabela, and how I had done it, how for once I had been good enough for her.

SECOND-HAND

THE AIR smelled of leather. A studied gloom made it difficult to see anything properly. Almost all the coats appeared to be in good condition.

She steadied her glasses. She was thinking of her husband’s unpredictable taste, somewhere between conventional and whimsical. She felt an urgent need to smoke. That night, or tomorrow morning at the latest, her period was going to start: an insistent dagger below her navel and a feeling of irritation at everything were signs.

She took a brown leather double-breasted coat off the hanger. Scrutinized it for a moment. She hung it up again, took down one that was black and had a pointed collar. She hung that up too and took down another longer grey one with big padded shoulders. Too manly, she thought maliciously. Returning it to the rack, she reached for a dark suede jacket and looked at it approvingly: it was just right for her husband’s old-fashioned taste. She could picture it on him with amazing clarity, as if she had already seen him wearing it, as if it had always belonged to him. In fact, now she thought about it, the coat was almost identical to the one she herself had given him the Christmas before last. But that was impossible. She tried to make sure. She examined the lining, the buttonholes, the sleeves: they looked the same, but how could she remember the exact shape of the buttons, or the brand? It was the same size too, although her husband wore the same size as most men. She noticed that the elbows were not at all worn: it might be, it might not be.

She paused to think it over. How could it have ended up here? Why would her husband pawn his present from the Christmas before last? Things hadn’t been going so well over the past year. But they hadn’t gone that badly. Or had they? She tried to recall their most recent arguments. No, there must be other reasons. It could simply be that he hated the coat (how elegant, he had exclaimed, you can’t imagine how badly I needed one), or that he couldn’t find an excuse not to wear it, and so decided to sell it and later pretend he had lost it (it looks great on me, really great, he had insisted). But her husband hadn’t said anything about having lost the coat. And yet she had no recollection of ever having seen him in it either, except the day he had tried it on at home. She studied the coat once more, then put it back. It was that one. It wasn’t that one. She didn’t know if it was that one. She felt the dagger twisting in her stomach again, and a pain encircling her head and pressing down on her vertebrae. She had spent all day — all her life — on her feet. When had they last gone on a trip? A real trip, just the two of them? They hadn’t had enough money. Or, above all, any reason to go. But that dark suede coat, where on earth had it come from? She searched the inside pockets, hoping to find some evidence to confirm her suspicions. They were empty.

Taking it down again, she went over to the shop assistant, who was painting her nails behind the counter and had a star-shaped nose stud. She asked her if she remembered who had brought the coat in. The girl looked up, twisted one side of her top lip and replied in a nasal voice: How should I know, love, so many people come and go in here. She looked the girl in the eye, demanding she make an effort. The assistant shrugged, then looked down again and dipped the brush in the nail-polish bottle. And you can’t tell me how long this coat has been in the shop either? she insisted. The assistant left the brush in the little bottle, sighed and grabbed the coat from her so as to check the label. It’s been here since last January, okay? And went back to her nails. I’ll take it then, she said, picking the coat up from the counter and removing the hanger. It’s my husband’s birthday, you see, and I want to give him a surprise.

SOR JUANA’S PRIVATE HELL

THE NIGHT I met Sister Juana, she explained to me that the menopause was to blame for everything. But the menopause, I protested, splitting hairs, starts at fifty. Juana contemplated me like those priests who are on the point of punishing you, and absolve you instead. She looked at me with a superior, inviting smile, and replied calmly: What do you know about the menopause of nuns?

Fifteen minutes later, Juana paid for our drinks. Twenty-two minutes later, by a miracle, we found a cab for hire in the middle of Paseo de la Reforma. Forty-three minutes later, she was bouncing on top of me, trapping my wrists.

According to her own confession, Juana lost her virginity to a fair-haired monk, a week before she left the convent. To be more precise, let us say she lost her virginity to six or seven monks, not all of them fair-haired, at the age of thirty-nine. In her own words, no sooner had she tried one than she wanted them all, all, all. The repetition is Juana’s, not mine. That was the way she described it, with her eyes closed and her legs open.

As soon as she realized she would never again be worthy in the eyes of the Lord (the realization was instantaneous), Juana let her hair grow, found a job as a vet’s assistant and spent all her free time (all, all, all) fornicating with men of any age, race and condition. The only prerequisite, Juana warned them, was that they must not fall in love with her. And they must give her their word on this from the first day. I have been a bride of Christ, she explained to them (she explained to us), from the age of eighteen until the age of thirty-nine. And since I cannot possibly aspire to any higher devotion, what I want now is sex, sex, sex. Although I know I shall be damned because of it.

Anyone who hasn’t slept with Juana (and let’s acknowledge that this possibility is becoming ever more remote in Mexico City) might be suspicious of such a pronouncement: “I know I shall be damned because of it.” And they might consider it a pious excuse. But one night with her, not to say a brief congress, was enough to understand just how transparent and unyielding Juana’s declaration was.

Juana’s sex life was so much more than that. More than life, I mean. And had it not been so vigorous I would venture to add that, on the contrary, it was a kind of death. With its attendant, absolutely inevitable carnal resurrections. I can imagine the misconceptions this will provoke in the most devious minds. Spasmodic ecstasies. Unfathomable suckings. Implausible durations. Crude acrobatics. My God, my God, my God. Juana’s way was different. Honest. No awkward positions. No oriental techniques.

Juana had something our civilization has all but lost: pure lust. With its unbridled temptations, genuine remorse and inevitable relapses. The incredible thing was that those cycles which to the rest of us might take days, months or years to get through, were condensed by Juana into a matter of minutes. If we attempt a scientific approach, we could say that the female population usually experiences the arousal, plateau, orgasmic and resolution phases. Juana on the other hand suffered shame, delirium, repentance and relapse. No preamble. No lingering. Like a summer storm.

From our first encounter at her house, I witnessed open-mouthed the liturgy she would always repeat. Juana would undress me roughly, bite me, rebuff me, tear off her underwear and pull me inside her. Then the most astonishing part would commence, the part that finally captivated my senses, and, in some way, ended up condemning me: Juana spoke to me. She spoke, howled, prayed, begged, wept, laughed, sang, gave thanks. It required no physical heroics to make her enter into that trance. You simply had to say yes to her. The reward was overwhelming. Of the hundreds of biblical obscenities Juana proffered during the act, it was the simplest ones that intrigued me most: “You’re making me sin, you devil”, “Your body is my damnation”, “You’re sending me to hell”, etcetera. A sceptic might consider these mere doctrinal utterances. But they defeated me. I am an ordinary fellow. I don’t usually arouse great passions in anyone. And, believe me, I had never in my life sent anyone to hell.

My tragedy was this: how could I fornicate after Juana? Was it worth swapping the lubricious flames of hell for a soft mattress? With her, each time was an event. A deplorable pleasure. An act of transcendental evil. With other women, sex was scarcely sex. From the moment I met Juana, my occasional companions, particularly the more progressive ones, seemed dull, predictable, exasperatingly normal. What we did together wasn’t terrible, or atrocious, or unpardonable. When we touched, neither of us betrayed our principles. We pretended to meet for dinner. Made polite banter. Bored each other discreetly. As time went on I progressed from apathy to phobia, and came to loathe the empty gestures I exchanged with my one-night stands. The wary foreplay. The tiny contractions. The controlled cries. I no longer knew how to be with anyone, anyone, anyone.

The last night I spent at Juana’s, she was dressed as usual, in a flared skirt and old shoes. Hair unkempt. No make-up on. Covered in goose bumps. Flesh on fire. When she tore off her clothes and I contemplated once more her bushy sex, I couldn’t help kissing her and whispering in her ear: I’m in love, Juana. She clenched her thighs instantly. She curled up on the couch, raised her chin and said: In that case, go. She said it so earnestly I didn’t even have the strength to protest. Besides, I was the one who had broken my promise. I dressed, ashamed.

As I crossed the living room cluttered with crucifixes and Holy Virgins, I heard Juana clicking her tongue. I turned round hopefully. I saw her coming towards me naked. She was walking quickly. I could see her feet were cold. She looked me in the eyes with a mixture of resentment and compassion. You can’t go to hell for love, she told me.

Then the light went out.

A TERRIBLY PERFECT COUPLE

IT IS WORTH RECALLING that clumsiness can sometimes arise from an excess of symmetry. Elisa and Elías were a case in point. Incapable of embracing each other without their respective right and left arms colliding in mid-air, both equally aroused the admiration of their friends. They had the same habits. Their political views did not clash even over incidental details. They enjoyed similar music. They laughed at the same jokes. In whatever restaurant they ate, either of them could easily order two of something without consulting the other. They were never sleepy at different times, which, however stimulating for their sex life, was annoying from a strategic point of view: Elisa and Elías secretly competed to be first in the bathroom, for the last glass of milk in the refrigerator, or to be the first to read the novel they had both planned to buy the week before. Theoretically, Elisa was able to reach her orgasm at the same time as Elías without the slightest effort. In practice, it was more common for them to find themselves tied up in knots, created by their always simultaneous desire to be on top or beneath the other. What a perfect couple, two halves of the same little orange, Elisa’s mother would tell them. To which they both replied by blushing, and stepping on each other’s toes as they rushed to kiss her.

I hate you more than anyone in the world, Elías wanted to howl in the middle of an eventful night. He was unable to get Elisa to hear him, or rather he was unable to distinguish his own protest from hers. After an unwelcoming sleep filled with synchronized nightmares, the two of them had breakfast in silence, without any need to discuss what was going to happen next. That evening, when Elisa came home from work and went to pack her bags, she was not surprised to find the wardrobe half-empty.

As usually happens, Elisa and Elías have tried several times to patch things up. However, it seems that whenever either of them tries to call, the other’s phone is busy. On the rare occasions when they have succeeded in arranging to meet, perhaps offended at how long it has taken the other to make a move, neither of them has turned up.

THE THINGS WE DON’T DO

I LIKE THAT WE DON’T do the things we don’t do. I like our plans on waking, when morning slinks onto our bed like a cat of light, plans we never accomplish because we get up late from imagining them so much. I like the anticipatory tremor in our muscles from the exercises we list without doing, the gyms we never join, the healthy habits we conjure as if simply by desiring them, our bodies will glow from their radiance. I like the travel guides you browse through with that absorption I so admire, and whose monuments, streets and museums we will never set foot in, as we sit mesmerized in front of our milky coffees. I like the restaurants we don’t go to, the light from their candles, the imagined taste of their dishes. I like the way our house looks when we picture it refurbished, its startling furniture, its lack of walls, its bold colours. I like the languages we wished we spoke and dream of learning next year, as we smile at each other in the shower. I hear from your lips those sweet, hypothetical languages: their words fill me with purpose. I like all the proposals, spoken or secretive, which we both fail to carry out. That is what I most like about sharing our lives. The wonder opened up elsewhere. The things we don’t do.