Suddenly, I just want to be told what to do next. Put your shoes on, there you go. Come with me, take my hand, that’s it. Here, put the helmet on, and I know it’s warm but take my jacket, I’m not letting you ride with bare arms. Dreamlike, I follow his cues and before I really process what’s happening, I’m straddling the back of his Ducati.

His flat is the upper floor of an old house, a crumbling grand stucco structure at the edge of Caballito. His sprawling studio apartment is in homey, artsy disarray. In one corner, there’s a galley kitchen with mismatched plates, in the other, a bed with rumpled sheets. In between, there is a couch, no television. G continues his soft, persistent instructions. Take your shoes off, sit down. I sink into the old sofa as he pours wine into two small blue glasses and hands me one. “Thanks,” I say, my voice gravelly and strange; it’s the first word I’ve said since we left the studio.

He sits next to me, placing his own wineglass on the crate that serves as a coffee table. He watches me take a long sip of the wine. When I put my glass down, he says, “Come here,” and pulls me into his lap. He strokes my hair and it feels like my blood rushes to meet his fingertips wherever they land on my skin.

“Something else happened,” he says, his voice low. “It’s not just the skiing.”

I nod.

“Do you want to tell me?” he asks.

I shake my head. To recount the whole gruesome story right now is the last thing I want.

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know.” Tears are coming to my eyes again.

Gianluca’s hand tightens in my hair and he pulls my head forward and kisses me, and I feel my heartbeat in my stomach, now lower. He pulls me up so that I’m straddling him. He runs his fingers under my shirt, trailing the bare skin of my ribs. I’m so much softer there than I once was, and it strikes me that no one has touched me like this in a long time.

“What do you want?” he asks again. I feel him hardening beneath me.

“I want,” I say, my voice suddenly clear, “to feel something.”

He nods. He takes my shirt off, pausing to look me in the eyes. My heart is racing. He reaches around and unclasps my bra, slips the straps off, and pulls it away. I curl forward a bit, feeling exposed even in the low light of the flat. He pulls my hands to my sides and puts his mouth to my breast.

“But you think I’m . . .” The words, the words.