The Woman at 1,000 Degrees

97 Spite and Love 2009

Lóa, who was the purest of virgins when she first appeared here in the garage, has finally been deflowered. I can hear it in her voice. It isn’t as prudish as it was. She’s giving nothing away, except for a smile and talks about a ‘friend.’

‘Oh, there’s nothing friendly about love,’ I say.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Spite and love… are flames from the same fire.’

‘Maybe things were different in the olden days?’ she says as she slips on a solar-yellow rubber glove.

‘Oh no. It still burns just as hard.’

‘Should one avoid the fire, then?’

‘No one can. Because that fire is life itself.’

She seems to have lost the thread and is, moreover, trying to find the other rubber glove when she childishly asks, ‘You’ve been in lots of countries, haven’t you?’

‘Countries are fine, but for no more than two weeks.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, because then it starts to get complicated. You fumble in people’s pants and start to get phone calls.’

‘You… did you fall in love a lot?’

‘Nah… the heart is like grilled meat. There’s no way it can be grilled again.’

‘You mean one can only fall in love once?’

‘Yes, of course, you can try regrilling it, but it gets terribly tough… terribly bland.’

‘And how long did it last for you?’

‘The first love lasts a lifetime. I still think about him.’

‘But I mean how long were you… together?’

‘We were a couple for two’ – I pause for breath – ‘two days, I think.’

‘You were together for two days and you still think about him?’

‘Yes. Love is measured in degrees, not minutes.’