The next day I wondered about the model, the absent eye seemed strange to me as I didn’t remember the model was one-eyed, but in that moment it made perfect sense, and the lack of the eye, while the poet wrote the verse on the blackboard, reminded me of the turtle in the man from the cave’s garden and I felt a whirlpool—a little one, but a whirlpool all the same—of sadness. I was turned on by the model’s nudity and the sculptor with clay on his hand and the poet writing and the liquor passing from hand to hand. When we left the university, the dancer approached me and told me that while posing, she solved architectural problems because she was also an architect and had a series of spatial problems that she solved by posing. I couldn’t talk with her because the sculptor, seeing her at my side, said let’s go, and took her by the hand, and we followed them and ended up at a strange party that seemed to have started several days before, in an apartment, seventeenth floor, with a river view. Sitting before the hairy-chested man, a rumpus on the terrace, I watched him play music from a computer on his legs, and I remember during a song that said something like tear drops falling down my face, the singer started discussing the song so passionately that I started crying and that must have really moved him because he then started looking at me with something like desire and singing. We looked at each other for a long time, I was already crying intensely, the singer also crying playing the piano, and he said something saccharine like you understand me, and the singer something like let’s hit the climax, I desperately gripped the bottle and all this in the midst of the growing bliss on the terrace that included a quarrel among drummers, one of whom had previously talked to me about my husband while I tried to clarify that he wasn’t my husband anymore, even though he was. Then a series of things happened that today I remember in a certain way, but that could very well have happened differently: the poet, filled with intensity, recited a poem about lightning bugs, we spin in circles in the night we are devoured by the fire, cried, and then went to the bathroom. After a little while the dancer appeared and told me: I went into the bathroom, and he grabbed my breasts, and now Ricky is kicking out the son of a bitch. I was surprised by the calmness with which the dancer talked and was even more surprised by the diligence with which I got up. When I got to the bathroom, the sculptor came out with his fist covered in blood and drool pouring from his mouth. The poet was sitting on the toilet, his eye bleeding. He told me that guy came in the bathroom, opened the door, kissed my cock; he said these fireflies while he touched his nipples, and when I went to caress them, this dude came in and fucking hell the whole mess ended.