He speaks as if I cared the least bit about English usage. He lets no sentence go without some form of emendation. By fits and starts, he recounts a vivid childhood betrayal. There is a grasping for elegance, correctness, which contrasts with the boorish movements of his body. As my mind gallivants, the suspicion overcomes me that he might be recounting a bar fight. His knee strikes my left buttock every time he needs to emphasize the intensity of a particular feeling. I let out a faint laugh when the sudden brush of my breasts arouses him. Politely annoyed, he resumes his story. His eyes, however, drift. As is clear, our momentous passion nears its natural end.

We fall asleep after a difficult second time. He has trouble keeping an erection. I assure him that it is a light matter, but the neurotic in him resents me in the morning (politely, yes). It’s an easy shot: if I were sincere, I would beg him to fuck me before we leave the bed. This hard-boiled obsession with desire is typical of a rising sense of ownership. We pass breakfast in silence. And that’s the way it goes.

I have a stable job and a magnificent routine. Everything must be in its place before I spend my afternoons looking for a spark. I am, to be sure, addicted to beginnings. There is no room in my body for the accommodation of lukewarm familiarity. And I speak in the most general terms. The thing is, I am as realistic as possible. I know I must cede in almost all parts of my life; otherwise, I would be heading southward. So I maintain my translations impeccable though I scoff at the dullness of every page, I’m agreeable to my colleagues though they bore me to death, I read edifying, up-to-the-minute books though I yawn at the authors’ unfaltering self-importance, and I exercise six days a week though I loathe the vengeful atmosphere of gyms. But it’s worth it. The bridled emotions burgeon when it’s time to surface.

Knowing someone who calls forth a distinct part of you is unmatched. And it is easy to see when there will be variation. The bland workaholic exercises the facade, the expansive crusader transmits his delirium, the pouty bohemian bolsters some whims, the guilt-ridden novice feeds tenderness, the neurotic intellectual asks for ripostes, the extravagant dandy enlivens the adornments, the labored Don Juan offers lustful calisthenics, and the authoritative brat unloads the mind. I’m being unfair, however. They are alike if one is on the lookout for obvious similarities. Sure, the Don Juans push and pull, strive to make themselves mysterious, but they have unique backgrounds from which they acquire touching tics. In the end, when ardor takes possession, we all want to please.

Until we don’t. And the last flicker makes itself known through a thin halo. That’s when you see a distinctive person become a biological construct. At least nowadays. Perhaps in other times they became a theological construct or a mechanical one. Whatever. The point is the shedding of idiosyncrasy. I don’t care much about the bohemian gently preaching his flight from convention, but I do care when I no longer listen to his fumbling sweet talk (so filtered through his character) and instead have to deal with his jealous epiphanies.

There is a pattern. First, what once was blatant pleasure, now betrays possibilities. Could this ecstatic moan reach a higher pitch? Could this shivering approach the uproar of convulsion? Secondly, conjectures spring up. Maybe a bigger cock would do? Maybe a beastly endurance would help? Thirdly, a mythical man is outlined. He has everything that the fantasizer lacks or possesses in a lesser degree. Lastly, an acquaintance embodies the myth. The mere name conjures an image of voluptuous abandon. And then comes the need for reassurance.

It is all very dramatic and wearisome. I’ve let myself get carried away two or three times. Hopeful. But there’s nothing pleasant at the other end. This jealousy marks the middle. If confidence is regained, what was lost will return only in isolated episodes. The rest is a subtle and cumulative withdrawal.

I understand the need to embellish this. Where would we be were people to face the dearth of genuine desire? So I’ve grown accustomed to the platitudes. Uncontrollable magnetism between bodies pales in the presence of rarefied affection: look at them oblivious to their nudity, so above it that a decorous kiss on the cheek is enough. Oh, yes! Their love has reached the heavens. They can now neglect their shells and sneer at the shallowness of youth, or at the baseness of adults who still hunger for zest.

But the platitudes acquire intensity with each passing year. At forty-five, I am made aware that sex is to be increasingly discarded in favor of a folksy quietism. A given for married women. Or if not a given, an expectation that can be met with relative ease. You already have the conditions set: an exhausted mate, demanding children, and an imaginary though forceful boundary. In my case, it is a touch more nauseating. Now it is rare for my relationships to begin with the view of a bridge. There is a damning offer at the outset: take the stairs; that is, start from the middle. Be it a man of thirty or of fifty, the eyes are telling. You’re past your prime, my dear, you have no leverage. They do. They are the ones who have an eternal blessing to fuck. The cock doesn’t age, does it? So long as it’s able to stand, it is catered to. Of course, age considerably diminishes desire here also; it can breed condescension. But what of the cunt? It has its moment, and then the curtain is lowered amid whistles and applause. If anyone dare raise it, there is no condescension: you’ll have to deal with outrage and disgust. The cunt after a certain decade can be talked about only as an object of nostalgia.

A predicament to love beginnings, then. We middle-aged ladies must know better and secretly hanker for the golden days, when our faces were silken, our breasts firm, and our asses pert. We’ll see our albums feigning interest in the events, but deep down we’ll envy our own distant bodies. And this’ll all grow keener for the coming generations, so engrossed in the miracle of their image.

Or we can finish burying creeds that are already comfortable in the grave. There’s resistance, sometimes excessively so, but when one follows the direction of an incontestable tendency, one from which flows the ebullience of life, it is outclassed.

He stops at the door and seems hesitant. He turns to me.

“I’d like to hear a childhood story from you. Dinner at nine?”

I nod. To my delight, I still err in placing the transition.

---

‘Bloom’ is taken from the short story collection Sleep Decades, available now from Malarkey Books.

Israel A. Bonilla lives in Guadalajara, Jalisco. He is author of the micro-chapbook Landscapes (Ghost City Press, 2021). His work has appeared in Your Impossible Voice, Firmament, Able Muse, Exacting Clam, BULL, new_sinews, and elsewhere. Twitter: @iab9208