2

Andy’s shadow poured water over its head as it walked across the room—an obvious nod to Sigfrido Cutzarida’s legendary Colbert Noir cologne ad. The lesbian modality of Andy’s girlfriend was stretched out next to Pabst’s girlfriend, their four long legs stretching up the wall, encaging the image of the 9 de Julio Expressway cut in two.

Pabst was curled up in a beanbag chair; he blinked as his dreams fell away, and pawed at his pants to make sure that his dong, flecked with dried semen, was safely out of the light. Outside it was sunny, probably; the Persian blinds were always closed, and the only light inside was electric. Andy widened his stance, stuck his hands in his pockets; his shadow now fell over the empty section of his desk where the CPU should have been. A few seconds passed.

Pabst opened one eye. There before him was Andy’s crotch, its oblique geography elegantly arranged. Zarpe Diem was over and Kamtchowsky was asleep with Mara; Andy had fucked them both, Pabst hadn’t, and there wasn’t anything left to say. Spilled green tea had seeped into the flooring, and there were grains of rice stuck to the carpet. The television was on—the cheesy showgirl Moria Casán at the dawn of her mammiferous career. She was wearing a fuchsia wig, and had her fingernails buried in the wig of another showgirl, who looked a little like Luisa Albinoni. Without taking his eyes off the screen, Andy sat down on the floor.

–Our national sickness is definitely the hair weave.

Pabst looked at his friend, whose eyes were still boring into Moria; he remembered Sarmiento’s bald pate, and let loose a spontaneous laugh.

Beside him was a stack of photocopies and a few effusively underlined books. Farther back, something shone in the dark, a piece of foil paper from a box of Sweet Mints, signaling the side entrance—far from the end—to the third chapter, the key to the evolution of the Theory of Egoic Transmissions.