After we fucked like a pair of barbarians—sweaty, loud, and shameless—we caught our breath. Irene was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling like she was watching angels float in circles, drunk on pleasure and singing boleros in Latin. And then, with that slow voice people use when they're commenting on a small miracle, she said:
"Now this... this is the good life. This is what real fucking feels like. My boyfriend? He's garbage. The guy makes love like he's wrapping a porcelain figurine. Wearing silk gloves. With this guilty little face. I always felt like yelling, 'Come on, man—I'm not made of glass!'"
She pulled on one of my shirts—white, Adidas Originals, long sleeves, with the coolest print of vintage cameras. It looked fucking great on her. Not just the way it fit, but the way she wore it—like someone who didn't need permission.
And honestly, it was obvious that girl had never been touched by someone who took sex seriously. And how do you take sex seriously? Like an elite athlete stepping onto the field—intent on winning, on earning the ovation, on leaving the crowd breathless. There are things in life—sex, art, business—you can't half-ass. You go in like a killer competitor, aiming for number one. Because even if you don't get there, at least you'll dodge mediocrity. At least you'll escape laziness. And those two—mediocrity and laziness—are the worst enemies of anyone who wants to find out what they're really capable of before dying. Before turning to dust. Lifeless dust drifting through a cold, indifferent universe that'll still be here long after the last fucking star goes out.
Irene grabbed my Zippo lighter, flicked the flame on, and took a couple more hits from the joint. At that moment, very conveniently, Things in Life by Dennis Brown started playing. Irene put down the joint and started dancing with her eyes closed and a smile on her face. I watched her also smiling. I watched her feeling like I was living a truly magical moment, one of those you never forget unless you undergo (if such a thing ever exists) a memory wipe like in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Yes, there she was, that beautiful girl from the other side of the city, from the wealthy part that I didn't belong to. There was Irene, dancing in a t-shirt that came down to the middle of her thighs, with sleeves hanging a bit, covering her hands. Yes, I was smiling.
When the song ended, Irene opened her eyes, looked at me cheerfully, and then, bouncing a couple of times, returned to the mattress and snuggled up next to me. Irene and I hugged, and while hugging, we talked about this and that.
Irene asked me:
"Aren't you thinking of going back to university?"
"No, it's not my place."
"Maybe it's because it's public. Private universities are better."
"Come on, look at my room. I don't have the money to pay a tuition fee that costs more than a damn kidney on the black market."
"There are scholarships."
"I'm not interested in university. I was at one point. I thought it was the best escape from the swamp. But it's not. When you don't have connections, when you're not plugged in, even if you kneel down and suck all the dicks of those up top, the ones running this hellish rig, you never get what you want. Maybe a crumb. But never what you really desire."
"And what do you want?"
"I want to make money doing what I love and what entertains me. But that's not going to happen."
"Why are you so pessimistic?"
"Because I've seen the harsh reality."
"Maybe I could help you."
"How?"
"Tell me what it is that you love and that entertains you."
"It's not just one activity. It's two."
"Then tell me."
"One is writing."
"Writing? Writing books?"
"Not books, just one book. I want to write a single book."
"It's great that you want to be a writer. That can make money. I don't know how, but we can figure it out. But I don't understand why you only want to write one book."
"Well, look, it's simple. I want to write a book that has no end. A book that will be unfinished when I die."
"I think something like that can't be sold. Books need an ending."
"I'm not interested in selling it."
"But you said you want money."
"Yeah, that's the paradox. I want to write it but not sell it."
"Well, yeah, it's a paradox. But come on, you mentioned two activities. What's the other one?"
"Killing a certain type of person. Killing anyone who makes me feel a visceral hatred."
Irene pulled away from me, sat on the mattress, and stared at me intently. She wasn't shocked or scared. Her face was the living reflection of the most intense curiosity. She asked me:
"Have you ever killed anyone?"
"Yes."
"And when are you going to tell me you're joking?"
"Never, because it's not a joke. It's the holy truth."
"How many people have you killed?"
"Fourteen."
"Who were they?"
"Homeless people. Drug addicts. Alcoholics. People who lived poorly. People who existed just because air is free."
Irene suddenly sighed, like she had found immense relief from a great burden. She said:
"I've killed three."
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"My mom's parents and a maid."