“He looks too much like Picasso to be any good,” I said, simultaneously remembering the blown-up photograph of Picasso hanging on the wall of her bedroom. What a bummer, it wasn’t because of Picasso that she’d hung it on her wall. I was filled with rage. “Come with me to the car,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” she said, surprised. “Don’t you think it’s a little early?”

“No,” I said, “I’m tired. And besides, if you want to masturbate, you can do it by yourself.”

Her face stiffened. “You could at least try not to be vulgar,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “I could.” Then I didn’t say anything more, so she got in the car and we set off. When we reached my old Alfa Romeo I got in without saying good-bye to her. She made as if to say something, then thought better of it, slammed the passenger door, and pulled out, tires screeching. I stood there watching her as she vanished at the end of the street. I was at the end of my tether, truth be told, and, to avoid going to a bar, I went straight home. The first thing I did was switch the radio on, clear the armchair, and move it closer to the table lamp, then I put a cushion where there was a dip in the chair, grabbed the cigarettes that were within arm’s reach, opened a book and tried to give myself over to that persuasive inner voice with which we all read. A voice different for each one of us if our souls are different, identical if identical, but in every case perfect, with no false notes, the untrained voice we perhaps have before we come screaming into the world.