Blood-drenched Beard

Yes. I can tell if I’m looking at the person. I see emotions normally. I know if someone’s ugly or good-looking, young or old. No problem. But I forget their actual face. I remembered that you were gorgeous. So it’s nice to see you again.

She bumps him with her shoulder.

You did not. You’re just saying that.

They stand there for a while, watching the pit bull’s workout, which seems interminable. He turns his head and sees that Beta has made herself comfortable on her towel at the other end of the living room, next to the front door.

Sometimes I think the dog’s watching me.

What?

Nothing, it’s silly.

So if I spent the night here you wouldn’t recognize my face in the morning?

Honestly? No.

You’re the only person in the world with a good excuse for it.

She leaves her empty can on the windowsill and turns to him.

Are you really sure you wouldn’t?

It’s never happened.

Not even if it was a really, really good night?

I don’t want to give you false hopes, Dália.

Where would we be without false hopes?

• • •

He wakes up without opening his eyes. There is the heat, the smell, and a clear memory of all the things for which a face, and even sight itself, is unnecessary. Weight is one of his favorite sensations. He’d be able to identify her at once if she lay on him the next morning or in a year’s time. It wouldn’t matter. And the way a body moves. If it is in intimate contact with his, if he can hold it firmly with both hands at its diverse points of articulation and in this manner read its voluntary and involuntary movements, soft and brusque, repeated or not, he can forever retain a tactile image that can tell him much more than any visual stimuli about how the person draws back and lets go, asks and refuses, approaches and retreats. Dália has protruding collarbones, wide hips, and full, muscular legs. Wiry hair and slightly bitter sweat like weak coffee. Milk and sugar breath. The way she uses her teeth. The bodily self-consciousness typical of beautiful women restricts her movements. A collection of little embarrassments and inhibitions that fade somewhat, as the half-light in the musty room reveals more and more. Her reserve gives way to a certain submission. The difference is subtle. He’ll remember everything. The darkened bedroom and the kitchen light filtering through the open door. Her feet twitching when he tried to kiss them. Tension in her whole body that took a while to yield. She digs her nails in lightly, gives little punches. When her hand holds something, her fingertips press alternately as if trying to remember how to play a tune on the piano. Maybe she plays piano or played it when she was little. It is moving to think about a person’s repertoire of caresses. Why they touch others this way or that. It comes from so many places. The things we imagine must feel good, the things we’ve been told feel good, the things we’ve had done to us and liked, the things that are involuntary, the things that are our way of giving pleasure, period. She comes almost in silence or, come to think of it, in total silence. And with her eyes closed. Not a peep. He can hear the waves. He won’t forget a single detail of it. He will still be able to recall it several months or years from now, and it will only remind him of her. He catalogs with renewed amazement the countless ways in which the world can be unveiled by his senses. Nothing but faces are lost. Dália sleeping soundlessly by his side, emanating heat, her buttocks pressed against his hip, her back against his left shoulder, the waves almost hitting the window. He’ll remember everything.

• • •