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You wait, what, a week for the bad energy to dissipate and then you start dating. Minuses: she’s always working, and she has a four-year-old named Justin. One of those hot moms, and you’re excited for the first time in more than a year. She’s probably had a lot of bad experiences with the hit-and-run types. But it galls you that she gave it up to some thug with no job, no education, no nothing, and now she’s making you jump through hoops of fire. she asks when she next calls, and you almost say yes, but then your idiocy gets the better of you. Where was that guard when she let the banilejo fuck her without a condom? Besides, it only happens when you’re not looking for it. When winter rolls in, a part of you fears that you’ll fold—Boston winters are on some terrorism shit—but you need the activity more than anything, so you keep at it even as the trees are stripped of their foliage and the paths empty out and the frost reaches into your bones. Every time you think about the ex, every time the loneliness rears up in you like a seething, burning continent, you tie on your shoes and hit the paths and that helps; it really does. I should have done this years ago, you declare, and your friend Arlenny, who never, ever messed with you (Thank God, she mutters), rolls her eyes. She smiles often, and whenever she’s nervous she says, Tell me something. Normally that would be a no-go, but Noemi is not only nice, she’s also kinda fly. She is instantly guarded, and that adds to your irritation. You run so hard that your heart feels like it’s going to seize. You lose all that drinking and smoking chub, and your legs look like they belong to someone else. Along the inside arch, a searing that doesn’t subside after a few days’ rest. One minute you have to stop yourself from jumping in the car and driving to see her and the next you’re calling a sucia and saying, You’re the one I always wanted. The ex, as you’re now calling her, always cooked: a turkey, a chicken, a pernil. That night, you drink yourself into a stupor, then spend two days recovering. It feels like you’re being slowly pincered apart, atom by atom. Elvis sits shivah with you in the apartment; he pats you on the shoulder, tells you to take it easy. You keep writing letters to her, waiting for the day that you can hand them to her. Thanksgiving you end up having to spend alone in your apartment because you can’t face your mom and the idea of accepting other people’s charity makes you furious. During finals a depression rolls over you, so profound that you doubt there is a name for it. Then you’d lose your thick, you note, and she laughs. It’s all going swell, it’s all marvellous, and then, in the middle of a sun salutation, you feel a shift in your lower back and —it’s like a sudden power failure. What the hell are you going to do with a blanquita? I should get back to ballet, she says while undressing you. When the class is over, you need help from the little white girl to rise to your feet. At the Plough and Stars, you collapse against a stop sign and call Elvis on your cell. Maintaining a digital presence is extremely important.
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She’ll stick around for a few months because you been together a long, long time. You claim you’re a sex addict and start attending meetings.
You walk the beach where they filmed “The Piano,” something she’s always wanted to do, and now, in penitent desperation, you give it to her.
You cut it out with all the old sucias, even the Iranian girl you’d boned the entire time you were with the fiancée. Takes you a bit, but you finally break clear, and when you do you feel lighter. She’s a big girl with skin like you wouldn’t believe, and, best of all, she doesn’t privar at all; actually seems . You must have needed it bad, because once you get into the swing of it you start running four, five, six times a week. You run in the morning and you run late at night, when there’s no one on the paths next to the Charles. The running is going splendidly, and then six months in you feel a pain in your right foot.
K.: you get numbers, though nothing you would take home to the fam. Her name is Noemi, Dominican from Baní, and you meet at Sofia’s in the last months before it closes. She’s a nurse, and when Elvis complains about his back she starts listing all the shit it might be. You used to run in the old days and you figure you need something to get you out of your head. pushes with his thumb, watches you writhe, and announces that you have plantar fasciitis.
You claim that you were sick, you claim that you were weak. You write her long sensitive letters, which she returns unopened.