Martina and Thomas were lying on a big leather sofa; Simone and I had our eyes glued to the TV.

“Tommy, would you give my back a rub? I’m aching like a beast …,” said Martina.

He brought his cigarette to his mouth and held it tightly between his lips, letting it dangle. He kept his eyes half closed to shield himself from the smoke that brought tears to his eyes; his long eyes, with their almost girlish lashes, looked even longer, two crescent moons.

Martina turned her back to him, and he started rubbing her vertebrae with two fingers, strong and extremely delicate. I thought about how good it must be to have two big hands like those on your body, and the smoke from his cigarette filling my nostrils. At that moment I desired him, and not just physically.

At some point I even thought of asking him, “Thomas, would you rub my back, too?” and I swear I nearly did.

But I don’t know how it happened …

That very evening, on an enormous Empire-style bed, Claudio lay on top of me and I halfheartedly opened my legs. By now I was wearing nothing but a black silk bra.

The smell of old wood gave me a comforting sense of warmth. The darkness engulfed everything. I was wearing the necklace with the pearl that you gave me, the only spark of light in the room. My thoughts were like long, long shooting stars whose tips I couldn’t find. Claudio’s attitude toward me was a mixture of jealousy and envy, and if I didn’t dedicate enough time to him he was hurt and made me feel guilty. He cried on the phone, begging me not to leave him, mortifying my happiness. “I can’t wait for this dust cloud to settle,” he said. “I want to have you all to myself. And don’t kid yourself, they’ll forget about you soon enough.”

No, Claudio, I’m not kidding myself. I hope deeply that they do forget me, that no one remembers me … and you, Claudio, you’ve got to forget me, too.

Claudio entered me and started moving back and forth. I felt my swollen belly, and felt his penis as something strange now, something unfamiliar. I turned my head to one side as I felt his abdomen rubbing against my pubic bone.

With my nipples erect I wanted to torture him.

After five or six thrusts he usually started sweating, water pouring from his forehead. When he was on top of me, the drips ran along his face and reached my lips, and I licked them wearily away with my tongue: they were very salty and bitter, with a vague taste of sperm.

That night he didn’t get as far as perspiration, because at the third thrust I stopped him and said, “I’m in love with someone else. I can’t do this.”