Argoitia is due back the day after tomorrow. Today I spent most of the time with my mom in her house in Tepoztlán.

Every time I see her, she gets a little older. I don’t mean she’s “gotten older,” she gets older: it happens before my eyes, in a second, like a fruit wrinkling in a time-lapse sequence. What ages her is my gaze, and that’s why I space out my visits now.

Mom realized I was in a strange mood and asked if something had happened with Argoitia, as if my maladies could arise only from that source. No, I said, it’s something deeper: I’ve got nothing to say, or sometimes I do but it isn’t a clear message, more like a noise, a sort of static that explodes in my ears, an electricity I’ve never been able to control. My mother was naturally alarmed by my reply. She asked if I was in therapy, if maybe it would do me good to talk to someone. I’m talking to you, I replied, and we left it at that.

I returned to Cuernavaca on a bus that dropped me at the downtown terminus and, as I was in the area, I decided to walk awhile before finding a cab to take me home. I passed Parque Revolución, the Centro Morelense de las Artes, and the Jardín Borda, then took a left to Plazuela del Zacate and stopped in front of the Palacio Cortés before walking around the Plaza de Armas and going for a “levantamuertos” juice in the Jardín Juárez. The sun was setting. The grackles in the plaza were making a deafening noise, drowning out any form of conversation. I finished my juice and walked back to the avenue to hail a cab. While I was waiting, I saw Erre coming out of the Cine Morelos. He looked pale, nervy, and was wearing a black shirt. He recognized me and stood stock still, his eyes wide open, as though he’d seen a ghost. I couldn’t help but laugh.

Erre came up, looking like he was going to kiss my cheek, but I dodged and held out my hand. For the last months I’ve been trying to ensure I greet everyone that way: I’m sick of people rubbing their sweat into my skin, impregnating me with the smell of their invasive perfumes and aftershaves, and getting a close-up view of the corner of my mouth. Men generally take it badly, more so than women, but Erre thought I was just kidding and gave a sort of bow. At that moment, cars began to pass down the avenue—the traffic signals farther up had turned green—and I raised a hand to stop a cab. I got into the back seat and, with the door still open, raised my eyes to Erre’s. Coming? I asked with as much seriousness as I could muster. Erre got in beside me and the cab headed off to a cacophony of horns. Santa María Ahuacatitlán, I told the driver; Erre looked at me in surprise. That’s where I live now, I explained. With Martín Argoitia.

It’s no big deal I said, but Erre’s silence was tortured. He stared at the ceiling, hardly breathing, as if he wanted to vanish. It really isn’t a big deal, I repeated, the whole story is funnier that way; it was fated. Erre put a hand to his jaw and half closed his eyes. I guessed he must have had a toothache or was pretending, inventing some ailment on the hoof to cover up his shame. And it really wasn’t a big deal. Even while we were still in the cab, I knew it was a bad idea, that fucking with a former teenage sweetheart could only end badly. But Erre looked weak and lost, and I convinced myself that there was some form of equilibrium in it: meeting again after so many years outside the Cine Morelos, him at a disadvantage, sweating and in low spirits, with his black shirt, as out of place as a Dutchman in Africa.

Things flowed naturally at first. I paid for the cab, led him to the study, showed him my hiding place for the flask, and we took a few swigs of tequila, hoping to find the courage or the cool. We made a pretense of catching up for three minutes but it was obvious that we weren’t there to talk about life. I made the first move. We kissed on the couch and pulled off each other’s clothes. I wanted to laugh at the sight of his socks—very much the gentleman, I thought; a conservative gentleman who shops in Sanborns’ menswear department—but I saved my comment for another moment so as not to spoil the mood. I was surprised to discover that Erre still smelled the same and that his body odor had been stored in some area of my subconscious all those years. I tried to move his hand between my legs, but from that instant things started to come to a standstill. The kisses and caresses were headed nowhere and I realized that his breathing had slowed slightly and he’d lost his hard-on. I tried stroking his dick to see if that would help but gave up after a while and sat beside him, our heads resting on the back of the couch. It’s no big deal, I said. It really isn’t a big deal.

Erre quickly dressed, hiding his limp penis. His shame gave me a warm feeling and then I was ashamed of that warmth; I guess I smiled, because he asked if I thought it was funny. A bit, I replied, teasing him. There was no point in trying to suppress my sense of humor: nothing was going to happen, anyway. He picked up the flask and swallowed the last shot. I have to go, he said, and I knew he was lying. He had nothing to do in Cuernavaca. Conejo had told me he was divorced, living with his parents, was forever complaining about ailments, and hadn’t been able to chill out with him, even when they were smoking weed.

Okay, I said in a conciliatory tone, call me sometime and we’ll have coffee. Erre stood there looking distracted and asked if I had any ibuprofen. I was slightly disconcerted by his question, the very different tone in his voice, as if he’d suddenly remembered something. I lazily put on my skirt and showed him to the bathroom. Argoitia had a pretty complete hoard of medicines in the cabinet over the basin. Take whatever you need, I said, and sat on the toilet lid. Erre read the labels, took a pill from three different packets, and swallowed them with a gulp of water from the faucet. I asked if he wanted me to call him a cab, but he told me he’d walk to the rank by the police station.

When we were at the gate, he moved closer again to kiss me goodbye and, once again, I backed off slightly and held out my hand. He didn’t bow this time or offer his hand in return. Sorry, Natalia, I’m not in a good place right now, he said. Don’t worry; it was good to see you, anyhow, I replied automatically, and it was only after I’d said those words that I realized they were true: against all the odds, and despite the awkwardness, I was a little pleased to have seen him.

I was pleased to see him back in Cuernavaca, divorced and downhearted, with erectile dysfunction; alone, sweaty, and out of place everywhere.

Erre clutched his jaw again, with the same expression of pain as before, and walked off down the cobbled street.