I ask if she has been doing this for long and she says, No, not for too long, maybe a year. Then, she turns the question on me: Why do you ask me that? Do I not look like I’m in this line? She sounds worried. I hurriedly reassure her: No, no, of course you do.

She shows me her left palm. There, just where the lifeline meets the fateline, I see the name ‘Raj’ scribbled in English with a blue ballpen. Raj, she says, is always with her, wherever she goes.

Do you think he is here right now? I ask, a hint of mischief in my voice.

She looks me in the eye and says, Yes. Right here.

Her lips are cracked and crimson with lipstick and congealed blood. I kiss her just below, on her chin. For a moment I remain still, breathing in her cheap perfume and talc. Then, slowly, I pull up her acrylic blouse. It reveals a pair of brown tits, unusually soft and buttery, the left one sporting a black birthmark the shape of an almond. She arches her back and moans; I am convinced she is pretending.

Her back is as smooth as her hands are rough. Rough like I imagine a peasant’s would be. She cries out in surprise when she feels mine—so smooth, she says, and mine so . . . Her voice trails away and she shakes her head in disgust. She seems to be rebuking herself. I kiss her from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine. I ask her to slap me. She refuses: How can I slap you, just like that? She cups my face in her palms and kisses my forehead. No . . . no, hit me, I like it, I protest. She gives me a confused look, pushes me away for a second and then draws me back to her breasts. I kiss her all over the face but again avoid the lips.

Her eyes drift to a necklace hanging on the wall next to the bookshelf: You must have lots of girlfriends. I say I never had too many; anyway, there are none at the moment. The necklace on the wall—well, that belongs to a previous girlfriend, someone with whom I had a five-year relationship and who ended up sleeping with another man. Some geezer she met on ICQ.

So you are heartbroken, she says. She sounds relieved. I also had my heart broken once, she offers by way of consolation, rather shyly, her head cocked to one side, her eyes looking into the distance. But the first one is always the toughest, she concludes, and, then, in a firm voice: Bas, no more, have to go. I hug her tightly; she keeps smiling and shaking her head as if something is worrying her. I beg her not to leave. Ever. I feel a curious drowsiness creeping up my spine, clutching at my lungs, tugging at my eyelids.