Though these are just words and words do not account for the variety of all the soft and violent orgasms I feel and for all that is not distinguished, he says I concluded, a button is crushed and bounces and over and over again and every time the bounce is the inflammation, the leap into pieces of everything, but the leap, the fragment, the piece, the sexed is always new reminiscence (everything from the past lurks in love). I don’t remember having said any of that because all I remember is licking his fingers and sucking for hours the nipples that, I insist, were two little hairless raisins containing the softness and nobility of this wild man. He remembers that in addition to having spoken about that inflammation of reds, he says I talked about the beauty of certain words like the word orgasm itself or the word fertility, and I could tell by the way he looked at me that it made him uncomfortable. He told me all this the next morning, stating it in a defensive tone, because I accused him, as was so characteristic of my cruelty, I told him you’re a drunk and you don’t remember yesterday and he said I never forget anything, and when he said it I saw in his eyes a sadness that might have come from some memory or the song playing in that moment, the song that was melancholic and romantic like few others, disco dancing . What’s true is that his eyes clouded over by some thought that could also be some reminiscence, or that could be related to the passion with which I was judging him. The song ended and so did the conversation; the conversations were always few, paused, interrupted, he clearly took great care of his words and I exceeded in their use, I missed them, tried to summon them, grab onto some, not understanding the silence this man offered, the closest silence I’ve ever felt, a silence both tender and voluptuous.