“I care,” I tell her after Kubra leaves.

She looks at me with some version of pity behind her eyes and says, “Maybe it’s time for you to return home, honey.”

“To what? The yacht?” I ask. “I don’t think so.”

We end up lingering so late that we have to borrow a lantern from Kubra to walk through the ruins. It’s tricky going, as the sickly circle of light struggles to illuminate even our own footsteps. When we get to the bridgeless banks, Maddy begs me to give her a piggyback ride. Just one of us, she says, should have to brave that freezing water.

“I dare you to put your head in a sarcophagus,” I say.

“In your dreams,” she says.

“I double dare you,” I say.

“I don’t want to risk waking the dead,” she says.

By the time we arrive at the hostel, we still haven’t figured out a plan. I rattle my keys outside our two doors. “I guess I should pack my things,” I say.

“Do you want to come in for a bit?” she asks.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m offering.”

We sit on the bed. She looks like she wants me to kiss her, so I kiss her. Pretty soon, we’re caressing, undressing. When I remove her bra, the breasts are heavy from not being relieved of milk. I put my lips to her nipples and feel uncertain if I should suck.

“Maddy,” I say, “I hope we make a baby tonight.”

“I’d be happy with an orgasm,” she says.

As much as I want to, however, I can’t get ready. Maddy strokes me and sets her mouth to work on my goods, but it’s no use. If I haven’t gotten hard by now, it’s not going to happen, I say to myself. Maybe having sex with Maddy simply isn’t in the cards for me. Not anymore. Maybe I’m meant to be alone. To her credit, she keeps trying even after it’s clear I’ve given up. It’s generous of her.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” I say.

“It’s okay,” she says. “Don’t worry about it.”

I lay my head on her chest and she rocks me back and forth, whispering, “Shh, my darling, rest now.” I fall asleep as I listen to the thumping of her heart, but before I do, I’m afraid that nothing will be adequate to quiet this pain I feel, a hungering alive in every cell.

you will never be forgotten

The rapist is such an inspiration that he started a newsletter to share his story. He chronicles his transformation from a nerdy gosling into the muscular entrepreneur swan he is today. The newsletter began as a motivational tool for his annual charity triathlon, but it has become much, much more. It’s a meditation on health, tech, spirituality, culture, and, of course, pushing through limitations and not understanding the meaning of the word no. The woman has been following the rapist on social media ever since the rape, though her accounts don’t officially “follow” the rapist. When the woman accidentally liked a post, she reached a new personal best in self-hatred, just as the rapist was reaching a new personal best in his triathlon. She imagined the rapist receiving notification of the like and considering it proof that the rape was consensual. The rapist works for the most prestigious seed fund in Silicon Valley, which is a fact the woman finds funny in retrospect. The woman works at the world’s most popular search engine doing content moderation, in a room with no window or ventilation system, shoulder to shoulder with unfortunate souls.