He doesn’t reply. He’s nodding at whatever Shorty is saying. I stand behind the counter until I’ve finished my beer and then take another from the fridge; then I come out, at a loss for what to do next. The bar has two doors: one leads to the lobby; the other is an exit. I don’t know if that one is open, but there’s a key in the lock. I walk over and give it a gentle tweek, trying not to attract attention. My delicacy achieves nothing, and I swing from side to side in an attempt to turn the key, which leaves its imprint on my skin. In the hushed bar (the high school students are either talking in whispers or not saying anything), where Gerardo and Shorty are like a pair of actors on stage, my gyrations must resemble the behavior of a woman who works in a very cheap restaurant on Calle Atocha: she insults the customers as she serves their meals, swearing loudly, as if she were singing. Her song and the clicking of her heels interrupt the murmurs of the diners, who sometimes laugh quietly, but mostly view the poor woman’s lack of restraint with grave expressions, while she alternates between normal conversations and foul language, managing not to offend anyone, or maybe not even having to try since the voice she uses for swearing is different from her conversational one, as if she had a devil in her throat. I succeed in opening the door and go outside, certain that I won’t have the courage to reenter the bar. I down my beer at an incredible rate to achieve a pleasant state of alcohol-induced passivity as quickly as possible, so that I won’t feel self-conscious walking past Gerardo and Shorty, not to mention the high school students, because by now there’s no escaping my tendency to humiliate myself just to be accepted. It could also be that my compulsive drinking and belief that I’ll feel completely at ease once I’m inebriated are a cover for my desire to submit to Gerardo and, through him, enter the real world. I’ve noticed the looks Shorty gives me for not staying close to my boyfriend, for not living up to his expectations of the behavior of the partner of this man he’s getting along well with and who is playing up to him so amazingly. I sit on the steps and watch the occasional truck pass; this isn’t a swimming pool bar, as I’d initially thought, but some sort of roadhouse, even if it doesn’t function as such; maybe it’s just a game room for the students.