by Lygia Fagundes Telles
Translated from the Portuguese by Eric M. B. Becker
She slowly extricated her hand from his grip and turned toward the wall. A blank white wall, not a single picture or even a nail mark—nada. If only there were a tiny hole left from a nail she could crawl into and disappear. She suddenly remembered the small insect struggling to crawl into the lime mortar, forcing itself into a small opening before it disappeared, fleeing. It’s easier to escape when you’re an insect, she thought, and folded her hands. What’s the first thing you do after making love? was the moronic question all those morons answered on the talk shows. I light a cigarette and lie there looking at the ceiling, some said amid giggles. Others provided more detail: I throw on my boxer shorts and grab a beer from the fridge. Or chicken wings. More giggles. And the talk show host never remembered to ask how they would react in a more delicate situation, when nothing happened at all. Where was one supposed to look? She turned back toward Armando, who was propped up against the headboard, with his elbows on the pillows, smoking and listening to music with an expression of pure ecstasy. I’m nothing more than a disgusting romantic, she thought.
