Imperfect Future

You said I will spank you and I thought or wanted to think that you would spank me for hours, until my cheeks were red and hot and the wetness between my thighs made a sound like splashing in puddles. You said I will examine you and I understood or wanted to understand that for hours you’d be like that, sniffing my body until your nose was blocked with scattered freckles, until my skin was a sea urchin, electrified between your teeth (your teeth and my nipple, your teeth and my belly button—that quiet, resting hollow—a purple clit crushed against your white, white teeth). I don’t know what else you said. Something like, Masturbate, but don’t let me hear you.

In any case, I never did believe those imperfect futures that left your mouth at quarter to five in the morning, as you wiped my stomach with toilet paper and the care of a metalsmith. The language of sex is such a betrayal.

This morning, I ran into you in the park. Your knack for smiling in spite of everything, for regretting nothing, infuriates me. You’ve invented a new language for me, for what we are now (for what we never were) and you’ve said goodbye with words that were absurd and true, like, for example, see you at the next stop, or take care of yourself.

There are no streetcars in Madrid, so with self-restraint I’ve entered the first bar I found, I’ve looked at the waiter at length in a sign of appeal, and sitting on the toilet in a small and not-too-squalid stall, fingers inserted, knees noting the lifeless chill of the tile, I’ve taken revenge on you, on your words at quarter to five, your attack at eleven-thirty this morning. I’ve taken revenge on myself, and staring up at the flush chain I’ve had a long, aching orgasm, reckless, as my bladder emptied itself of all memories of you, sweetly wetting my hand.