Some of Us

Some of us open the bathroom door; we enter. We see the reflection of a skinny boy, naked, with long sideburns and curly hair. Many of our gazes dwell on those gray nervous eyes that have lost their naîvete but still lack experience.

A number of us look at that image with contempt, thinking here is one who is not to be trusted. Others observe with curiosity, perhaps a hint of anxiety. Some even feel, if not love, a complex familiarity composed of pity and tenderness, the kind that makes you rack your brains to find evidence against each mistake and forgive all.

Then some of us remember why we went in and we take a piss.

We drop the soap, twice. A few of us remember that we had drunk too much. Before we realize, someone has already opened the door and we are in the room, even if someone else wanted to wait a little longer, probably out of fear.

The room is cold, we dive under the covers, Olga embraces us.

“You all right?” She asks.

Some of us respond with a moan, while someone else feels around the table in the dark and finds a pack of cigarettes.

“Give me one.” We light two cigarettes, pass one to the girl, and we can see when she inhales that she’s smiling. Then says what many of us expected.

“I enjoyed it. You?”

We do not answer right away. While making love, some of us have thought of an unknown woman glimpsed this morning, sitting on a bench in the station, sad and sensual. Someone replied, without conviction: “It was great.” Someone else feels ashamed and lets out a barely noticeable sigh. Signs she can’t miss.

“Who are you thinking about?” She asks in a voice that has lost the usual hesitancy, the ritually subdued tone.

Come on now. One of us has to answer.