“You should fuck me before I change my mind,” she said.
She meant it, too. She had fantasized about a similar encounter but never dared, she had even pictured herself with this man in a fit of boredom. And there she was now and there he was, and for all of Maite’s deficiencies, he seemed willing and interested in her.
The music was a low hum as she undid his belt buckle and he pulled up her skirt, pressing her down against the cheap red-and-white carpet. Wary, perhaps, that she might bite him again, he did not attempt to kiss her. It was not as if she felt in the mood to be kissed. Kisses were for the pages ofSecret Romance, they were for sweethearts, and this wasn’t an episode that belonged in any of her magazines.
They were both angry at the world, that was why this was happening. It was a kiss of scorpions, both heavy with poison. Both weary too. The tension and excitement of the past few days was the kindle they required.
Still half-dressed, Rubén thrust into her. She wondered, for a brief, flickering second, how she might compare to the beautiful Leonora, and she drew him closer to her, pressing her face against his neck so he wouldn’t look at her.
It had been so long since she’d had a lover, she feared she’d forgotten how human bodies worked, but they found a rhythm, something between sorrow and delight.
She felt his tongue, wet and warm, sliding against her neck. She thought about Emilio, handsome, cultured, interesting Emilio, and let herself play-pretend for a minute, imagining it was him with her. Then she thought it was one of the men of her comic books, that perhaps both of them were taking turns having their way with her. Rubén grunted something, lifted his head, and she looked at him and the fantasy was broken.
She came a few minutes after that; it caught her by surprise. It was a brief, low tremor, like a butterfly brushing its wings against her skin, not a precipice of pleasure, but at least he’d had the decency of waiting for her. Some men didn’t care.
He thrusted once, twice, then lay still above her for a couple of minutes before rolling aside. Music was still playing, but it was a different song and faster tempo. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again he was staring at the ceiling. She felt nervous, wondering what he was thinking, whether he felt guilty.
“I’m jumping in the shower,” she said, lifting the needle from the record player as she headed into the bathroom.
She didn’t take long, vigorously scrubbing her stomach and legs, washing off the sweat and semen, removing any makeup. She stopped in front of the mirror to contemplate her face, free of any adornment, flushed with the warmth of the hot shower, and, in the aftermath of lovemaking, somewhat pretty. When for a split second, the face was angled in the mirror, it even seemed almost beautiful.
Perhaps it was merely her imagination, merely the need to be desirable, but it was a nice illusion.
When she walked back into her bedroom in her ratty pink robe, she saw that Rubén had settled on the bed. He leaned on his elbow and looked up at her as she toweled her hair, then ran a hand across the objects arranged on her vanity, her little treasures—like jewels snatched from a shipwreck. She caressed the statue of San Judas Tadeo and the bottle of perfume. She thought about faceless men wielding sacrificial knives and maidens bound upon stone altars.
“You all right?”
“Hmmm?” she replied.
“You look worried.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Of course. But I’d like to not think about it before I take a nap. Fuck, I’m tired.”
“I can’t stop thinking about things, ever. Sometimes I look at a word in a dictionary and I wonder, how did that word come to have this meaning? How did hot mean hot or cold mean cold, and why some words sound the same but mean different things. Then I also think about how things might be and how they aren’t.”
He looked at her curiously, as if she were singing in an unknown language.
“You’re not like that,” she said. “You don’t overthink.”
“I suppose it depends who you’re asking.”
“Leonora, what does she say?”
She assumed he would be upset if she mentioned the girl, but Rubén merely shrugged. Maite opened a drawer and took out her nightgown. It had buttons going up the front and ruffles on the wrists. Holding it up, she realized how hideous it looked and felt a bit embarrassed to be wearing it, but she changed into it and slipped under the covers.
Rubén took off his clothes but did not bother getting changed into pajamas. He also didn’t shower. She wondered if he had even brought pajamas. Perhaps he slept naked. He and Leonora together, the apartment musky with their scent.
“I still think we should let Emilio know.” Maite turned her head and looked at him. “It would be selfish not to tell him she’s okay.”
“Emilio is a rich junior who is in the pocket of the PRI, I’ve told you that. There’s no reason to dig deeper there.”
“You’re so annoying,” she muttered. “Where’s the gun, anyway? If an assassin walks in here now, he’ll shoot you dead. You’ll die without underwear.”
“You do overthink things,” he said, but he was smiling. “It’s not a bad way to die, having had a good fuck and sleeping in bed. If I do end up in the damn sierra with the guerilla, I’ll remember you fondly.”
It wasn’t quite a declaration of love, but she liked that. She wondered if she’d been wrong and Rubén might have the raw material to be a hero from a comic book, after all. “Soldier” sounded exciting. She supposed if he was the member of a guerilla it wasn’t quite like being a soldier, but close enough. A rebel with a cause.
