Chapter 2

There was no need to setup anything, to make arrangements. It was just natural. I suppose all affairs are like that: unplanned, natural. Things just settle into a routine. We met for lunch, we went to the hotel—another one, which was less conspicuous and had a less strict check in. At first it was a little awkward; our emails continued with no mention whatsoever to what was happening in real life. They were, I guess, safe harbors, keeping a little of order in all that was happening. The first few encounters, however, were just the opposite. The words were few and we barely mentioned the stories or what we had been talking about on the emails, often leaving the restaurant after nothing but a drink, sometimes meeting in the hotel. There was no schedule, sometimes we just met online and combined to meet for lunch, often not even entering the restaurant. It was confusing until it became a routine. I wish I could remember more of those days; memory is so funny. I can remember somethings perfectly, as if they were happening right now: the settings, the tone of her voice, the way her hair was combed. Some of the things I remember are contradicted by the emails I kept; sometimes they are so different from my recollections that it almost seems one of them was fabricated. One of the was fabricated: my memories, changing as time passed. Telling this story has been a constant questioning of reality. I've re-read the emails, reading forgotten discussions, pleasant compliments, things that once mattered and that have completely disappeared from my mind. Sometimes they come back, I read a phrase and it's like a switch has been activated, it all comes back in a sudden jolt. Sometimes, however, I read words that I myself have written and they feel stranger than that of a classic writer dead two hundred years before I was born.

What I remember the most is the routine, the weekly meetings at the same room, first at the hotel, then at The Place, the small apartment that I rented only for our meetings. It was different than any other relationship I had. There was no jealousy—I had always been jealous—no questions of who we were, what we had done the day before. We didn't know each other names, where the other lived, anything. All the questions that people ask to know each other were uninteresting. We didn't ask them not because they were forbidden, but because we had no interest whatsoever. Our relationship did not belong to the world, it only existed in the words of computer screens and in these occasional meetings we had, beneath the masks of ourselves.

I'd be lying if I said that it wasn't for the sex that we met. If it weren't, why meeting every week? And doing it every week? We could have just sat at a nice cafe and talked until life called us both back to reality. We didn't have to get naked as soon as we entered the room, jumping into bed as soon as our clothes were gone. But it also was not for the sex alone. The sex was part of it; there was the sex, there were the talks, and they seemed to be two different things, but they weren't. The sex was exercise and pleasure, but more than that, I now believe, it was to break the ice; the sex was what made us talk about anything we wanted, unabashed. There was a huge comfort in being naked, post-orgasmic, in the arms of someone who knew so many things about you that nobody else knew, that nobody else would ever know. We trusted each other completely.

No, it was for the sex as well, only ... in a unique way. It wasn't for getting rid of our body fluids and calming down our hormones, and it wasn't love.

Sometimes there was little or no sex—not caused by her periods, that didn't stop either of us. Sometimes we did it in the shower, even then, or in bed, depending on her flux, or we just didn't have intercourse. Erotic writers can be quite imaginative in bed. I didn't mind, she seemed to find it naughty and forbidden. That was what mattered: how we were free to be ourselves, to say and do whatever we wanted. I never held back a thought or a question, never lied to her, never gave her only half of an answer. There was only one time when this complete freedom led to an argument.

"Did you know wedding rings leave marks?" I asked her one day, not long after that first time—it must have been on our third meeting—while playing with her hand. She had not even brushed anything related to her husband, her life, but her hand was always like that, empty but with the mark of a wedding ring. She hid her hand immediately, as if she had suddenly touched something very hot.

"How long have you known?"

"The first time we met."

"Shit." She sat up, facing back from me. It is not difficult to recall exactly how much time passed since the first time we met and the day I asked this. Though we couldn't have gone to bed more than three or four times, I also felt that we already had settled into a routine.

"I thought there was a possibility that you had just divorced," I said. It was not a lie; I had entertained that possibility, but I knew it was very unlikely.

"And yet, you didn't mind."

"I did. That's why it took a while for me to ask you out again. That's why I hesitated. That's why I ... And today ... You didn't seem to..."

"What man cares what a good lay wears on her fingers, right?"

"That's mean," I said, hurt.

"Shit." She started to stand up, to go away, but I held her.

"Why are you mad?"

"Do you think I fuck around all the time?" She was mad.

"No."

"You do. Fuck you."

"Athena..."

"I'm not Athena!" She screamed, trying to get away from me. "Let me go!" I released her. She started to dress. I went to her, but she didn't look at me. I knew she was ready to break into tears, but she would wait until I was far away. I held her again, forcing her to look at me.

"What? Are you going to rape me now?"

I did something else. I caressed her face lightly and hugged her, my arms protecting her from the world. It was all it took. I heard her cry, loudly, feeling the hot tears on my chest, her sobs against me. She hugged me with all her strength, her hands pulling my flesh, scraping my skin. When she was feeling better I moved to the bed, sitting on its side and making her sit on my lap and hug me like a child.

"You'll be late," she muttered.

"I don't mind."

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right. Do you want to talk?"

"I don't know."

"I can stay here this afternoon, if you want."

"No..."

"Really. I wouldn't like to leave you now."

"I'm feeling better."

She let me go, and dried her eyes with the back of her hands. I was naked, so it was hard to offer a handkerchief. "What a show," she mocked herself. "I think I'll go now. It's better." She stood up and started to dress again.

"Do you want to go get a cup of coffee?"

"No," she said, sniffing. "I have some thinking to do."

I dressed too. She was ready before I did, though. "I'm going now." I came closer to her, and she looked down again. "Don't."

"Just promise we'll meet again, if not only for a cup of coffee. And that we'll continue to email each other."

"I can't promise anything right now, Marquis."

I kissed her, before she could move away. A light kiss.

"I know. But..."

She turned around and left, leaving behind the sound of the closing door and the unknown future. Perhaps the weight of the affair would be too much. I walked out of the hotel wondering if I would ever see her again. If I'd ever hear of her again, her stories or emails. She could disappear easily, and the prospect of losing her was painful. What we had was strange: she was my friend, my psychiatrist and my client, my courtesan. Did I love her?

I have asked this question to myself many times since that day. Have I ever loved her?

I was never in love with her, that passionate love that sweeps us away. I've loved like that before. No, the sight of Athena didn't make my heart beat faster, nor did it take my breath away or made me stutter. Yes, I often thought of her—or so I recall. Yet it was not masturbating at night, in my empty apartment—not often, at least—and I never pictured Athena when I was fucking somebody else.