“Yes, I am. I used to dream when I was sleeping with a man that my father and mother both came in and stood over the bed. This was thousands of miles away.”

I told him about my mother believing that Jorge was gay and about the night when I had told her everything. We were now the last people in the restaurant. I felt depressed by Pablo’s story, I wished that I had known him then. We walked out into the busy afternoon and went to the movies. By the time the film was over, I said, Susan and Jorge would have finished whatever it was they were doing in my apartment and we could have it to ourselves.

The story made him seem different. I had believed that he was confident and strong, someone who had made decisions about his life. I had never detected any sign of weakness in him before. The movie was funny: I cannot remember whether it was one of the Almodóvar films or a new Woody Allen—we saw so many movies in that year—but we laughed a lot and held hands in the dark. When we went back to the apartment, Susan and Jorge had gone. Pablo went into the spare bedroom and smelt the air.

“They were here all right,” he said. He pulled back the blankets on the bed and pointed to a small stain on the sheet.

“I thought they would do better than that.”

WHEN WE WENT to bed now things had changed between us. He let me take charge, he seemed to soften as though he wanted me to hold him and comfort him. We slept for a while, and when we woke it was different, we were ready to make love now, we moved fast. I let him do anything he wanted and he did not resist me when I took over. He kept telling me not to make him come, but he came without me touching him, and then he turned toward me and kissed me and made sure that I came too and we lay together until it was time for him to go.

I LOVED WAITING for him. I loved it when he rang the bell of my apartment and I pressed the buzzer and then heard him on the stairs and stood at the door watching him as he came into view. Often, I said nothing for a while. I looked at him and smiled. I could not believe that he was with me, that he was mine, I loved his face, his hair, his skin, his dick. He was always alert to me, to what I wanted. I loved being in bed with him, and not just because of his responses, but because of his shape, I could have spent days looking at his body, touching him.