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Alex doesn’t seem to be in a hurry either. I have him at my disposal and he’s enjoying it, his eyes closing in pure pleasure, his head shaking. He’s gripping the sheets so tightly his knuckles are white. But when I move and our groins meet accidentally, rubbing against each other, the foreplay is over. He sits up and pulls my mouth to his in one swift movement. He kisses me fiercely, massaging my breasts between grunts and heavy breaths.
“Condom. Put it on me. Top drawer,” he says, still licking my lips and stroking me up and down.
I do as he says, get up to reach the bedside table. I open the top drawer, find the box of condoms, take one and unwrap it. When I turn to Alex, I see he hasn’t looked away from me. I walk to him again and he slumps down on the bed before I climb on top of him. I hold his cock and put the condom on him without taking my eyes off his face. I do it slowly, and I don’t know if it’s because I want to push him over the edge or if it’s just because I don’t want this moment to ever end.
When I’m done, I angle myself and slide slowly down, eliciting a scream from both of us when I’m completely settled. I meant to ride him like this, but Alex has other plans; he pulls me to his chest, kissing me as soon as he has my lips within his reach.
We move slowly, enjoying the friction, letting him slip out of me before I slide myself back down right after. Until I can’t do it anymore. I just can’t. And I’m not talking about the physical part of it, I mean emotionally. I can’t bear it. This isn’t a damn last time, this is... This is... I quicken my rhythm, trying to get us both there, to finish as soon as possible. And we do. We do, in another synchronized orgasm that seems to go on forever.
A second later, I sit up and lie on my back on the mattress; I don’t need more intimacy than I’ve already had. As soon as I lie down, I notice the sand all over the bed; damn, I’m making a mess of the sheets. I feel Alex taking off the condom and throwing it on the floor. He lies on his side, his back to me, and silence engulfs us again. I’m about to get up when I hear his sleepy voice.
“You called me Alejandro earlier. Why?”
The question surprises me. And I have no answer for him. It just came out. Just like that.
“I don’t know.”
“It was like a slap in the face, like going back to the past; back to the time when you used to call me that to annoy me. Don’t ever do it again, Priscila. That boy doesn’t exist anymore—doesn’t want to. This is just sex. It was a fucking itch I had to scratch.”
I don’t answer him. I stay silent, waiting for my usual need to yell and recriminate to rush in, but it doesn’t come. Because Alex can distill all the hatred in the world against me, but the reality is that I’ve never seen him as vulnerable as he is right now.
I come close to him, to say goodbye—no hard feelings—so we can get on with our lives, but I realize he’s fallen asleep. God, he has to be on the verge of exhaustion, to fall asleep at a time like this. I stroke his hair gently and swallow back my upcoming tears.
Oh, Alex. My Alex. My boy. How much I loved you.
I get out of bed and go to the bathroom to freshen up. I don’t turn off the light when I’m done; I leave it on, with the door ajar. I have no idea if Alex is still doing that, but I’d rather have him get up to turn it off, disgusted by my lack of knowledge about him overcoming his fears, than even the possibility he might wake up in the dark, feeling lost and scared. I look at him one last time before I leave, and I see Dark resting at his feet. He hadn’t come in until now; Alex has him well trained. I go over to him.
“Take care of him, okay?” I tell the dog, petting him and kissing him goodbye.
Dark sticks his tongue out and wags his tail in response.
I pick up my clothes on my way out and put them on. There’s sand everywhere, it’s the trail we left, a marked path. I look at the bare blue walls of the hallway, remembering how they used to be covered with Alex’s swimming triumphs: pictures, medals, awards. Now they are empty. Stripped bare.
I go downstairs and into the kitchen for a glass of water before I leave. Just a peek into this room—it’s exactly as it was in the past, with the same wooden furniture the color of the Mediterranean Sea—is like a slap in the face. I guess this is what Alex felt when I called him Alejandro. Forced him to time travel to the past. We spent most of our married life in here. The kitchen was one of the few things assembled when we moved in.
As I approach the faucet to drink directly from it, I notice the pills on the counter. They look like painkillers... Has he taken them? Is his leg hurting that much? Then I realize that, considering he fell asleep as soon as we finished, he probably did take them before I arrived, and so much physical effort has knocked him out.
And now, as I leave the house—without looking back; I can’t—I feel devastated.
Devastated. Because I just saw him in pain, his leg hurting. I saw how he was limping. Because something awful happened to him and even if I’ve tried to deny it, silence it with the sex we just had, I can’t help it anymore. What I’ve seen will never be forgotten; the image of injured Alex is coming to Boston with me. So many years of denying it to myself, avoiding reading anything to do with his accident in the papers and... For what? To end up experiencing it firsthand...
I allow myself to cry on the way home. I need it.
Let’s go home, Pris. I’ll take care of you.
Pristy the Squirrel: The day of the “last time.”
