Yo-Yo Boing!

— Me too, I loved Sweetie.

–¿Por qué llevarles la contraria? To make people uncomfortable? If I were to say whatever I think, I would not have one single friend. You are out of an argument. I won. End of discussion. I won. And you know it.

— Don’t point at me.

— That’s why you lost. I pointed at you. I won. I don’t make compromises. I like Fellini. Either yes or no.

— How would you like it if I pointed in your face?

— You can, I don’t mind, I won.

— It’s bugging you.

— Sí.

— Y por qué no la acabas de matar. Si me dejaras a mí. I can’t stand sus zumbidos. I wish I could fly invisible. I envy her liberty. She’ll tease you, bite you, suck your blood and steal away. And you can’t catch her. She’s too fast for you. Now, she’s on your yellow pages. Napping. Why don’t you kill her now. Fast and precise. There’s satisfaction in doing it right — a good swat on the first try. Gimme it. Where is she? Piece of cake. Oops. Don’t move. If you weren’t distracting me — in a flash back or flash forward — with my pupils glimming, I’d snap her killing moment instantly like a photographer, like that, click, and now, oops, again, damn, I can’t stand it.

— You are not handling the situation very well. You have to seduce her first, and then wait until she feels at ease with you, when she is most quiet, when she trusts you, she has to trust you so much that she feels she can sleep, imagine, she feels she can close her eyes and let herself go in front of you. That’s the moment you sneak off your shoe. No vacillation, no doubt, you must act straight forward. Now she’s feeling relaxed, she’s on the verge of falling asleep, her eyes are half asleep, and she’s feeling saved, protected by you. You are keeping your eye on her as if you’re playing tennis, she’s the ball. Now watch the ball coming towards you, watch her crossing the net, watch her bouncing on the court, bouncing hard and jumping back and high into the air. Where is she? You’re aroused by a sudden doubt. You think you have missed the shot, but you continue. Now, take it back, okay, move back, stretch your hand back, just over your shoulder, in slow motion, you must be aware of the slow motion, so she doesn’t know that you are her enemy. She trusts you now, that’s why she has just stretched out her legs. If you dare to miss this shot. It must be straight forward, no compassion. Kill her. You must give me this pleasure. I am the one who is going to clap for you. If you do it meekly, believe me, I am going to be very disappointed. You don’t have three shots, you can’t wound her, and then leave her suffering because you smeared one of her little legs across the white wall with your dirty tennis shoe. She’ll recognize in her agonic state that you were not her friend, that, in fact, you were her enemy. What does she do then, nothing, she’s trapped, no, please, don’t you dare torture her, please don’t, kill her with the first swat, the pleasure of being hit right there, on the dot, on the spot, with no sensation at all, no hard feelings, no recognition of anything.

— She’s dead. She’s dead.

— Is she really dead? She’s still moving, idiot. After all this training, how can I trust you? Shit.

— Will you please shut up, Kika.

— I know, I know exactly what you are saying. I can’t bear it myself. It accumulates in my soul so much anger, anger is not the word, so much anguish. I know what you mean, it’s as if I myself want to scream:

— Shut up, Kika!

But then it happens, it always happens that way. It comes straight from my lungs, opens my breath, and gives me the strength to scream. I’m writing it while I’m screaming it. It’s implicit in the tone, in the way it smells the page. It gives my tongue an orgasm. I swear, I feel as if I am getting hold of a pear, as if I am climbing a tree to get hold of an orange. And right there you are, losing your grip, holding out your arms, falling. I hold out my arms, I don’t stop, I reach and stretch higher and higher, trembling, and with strength and sadness, I take you in my arms, trembling, I hold you tight as if you were a baby, I let you cry a little bit in my arms:

— Don’t cry—I say—Please don’t cry. It’s over. I saved you. You’re holding tight to my arms. It’s over. Don’t cry.

And then it’s over, it’s all over. It passes away. And I feel like I had it, I feel good. Really good. I don’t care if you got it. Who cares if you understand it. I got it, Pipo! I got it, Pipo! I got it, Pipo!

— Vamos. Concéntrate. Vamos. Concéntrate.

— Puto. Qué quieres. Qué quieres. Puto. Cegarme.

— Ahora da una vuelta.

— Ahora. Marearme.

— Haz lo que te digo.

— Yo te dije que me hicieras concentrarme. No que me marearas.

— Tú no ves que te estoy inspirando. Ahora sube el escalón de la cama. Es un pequeño escalón. Con cuidado. Así. Qué bella.