After fucking like a couple of barbarians, after catching my breath from the intense, lascivious workout, after she (still exhilarated by my uninhibited performance) commented that her boyfriend was an inept when it came to sex because he treated her like some fragile glass object he didn't want to break, Irene put on one of my t-shirts, a white Adidas Originals long-sleeve shirt with a pretty cool print of old cameras. And let's be clear, it was obvious to me that this girl had never been with a man who took sex seriously. And how is that? Well, like an elite athlete when they step onto the playing field, you know, with the intention of winning and getting all the applause from the crowd. There are things like sex (and also art or business) that you have to approach with the same attitude and intensity as a competitive athlete, someone aiming to be number one, because in doing so, even if that longed-for goal isn't reached, by wanting to be number one, you'll reject mediocrity and laziness, those two great enemies of people who want to see what they're capable of achieving in this life, what they can accomplish before they die and turn into dust, a dust without life in the infinite cosmos that will continue to exist even when not a single star shines in the universe, and this, our universe, becomes nothing but eternal and cold darkness.
Irene grabbed my Zippo lighter, flicked the flame on, and took a couple more hits from the joint. At that moment, very conveniently, Things in Life by Dennis Brown started playing. Irene put down the joint and started dancing with her eyes closed and a smile on her face. I watched her also smiling. I watched her feeling like I was living a truly magical moment, one of those you never forget unless you undergo (if such a thing ever exists) a memory wipe like in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Yes, there she was, that beautiful girl from the other side of the city, from the wealthy part that I didn't belong to. There was Irene, dancing in a t-shirt that came down to the middle of her thighs, with sleeves hanging a bit, covering her hands. Yes, I was smiling.
When the song ended, Irene opened her eyes, looked at me cheerfully, and then, bouncing a couple of times, returned to the mattress and snuggled up next to me. Irene and I hugged, and while hugging, we talked about this and that.
Irene asked me:
"Aren't you thinking of going back to university?"
"No, it's not my place."
"Maybe it's because it's public. Private universities are better."
"Come on, look at my room. I don't have the money to pay a tuition fee that costs more than a damn kidney on the black market."
"There are scholarships."
"I'm not interested in university. I was at one point. I thought it was the best escape from the swamp. But it's not. When you don't have connections, when you're not plugged in, even if you kneel down and suck all the dicks of those up top, the ones running this hellish rig, you never get what you want. Maybe a crumb. But never what you really desire."
"And what do you want?"
"I want to make money doing what I love and what entertains me. But that's not going to happen."
"Why are you so pessimistic?"
"Because I've seen the harsh reality."
"Maybe I could help you."
"How?"
"Tell me what it is that you love and that entertains you."
"It's not just one activity. It's two."
"Then tell me."
"One is writing."
"Writing? Writing books?"
"Not books, just one book. I want to write a single book."
"It's great that you want to be a writer. That can make money. I don't know how, but we can figure it out. But I don't understand why you only want to write one book."
"Well, look, it's simple. I want to write a book that has no end. A book that will be unfinished when I die."
"I think something like that can't be sold. Books need an ending."
"I'm not interested in selling it."
"But you said you want money."
"Yeah, that's the paradox. I want to write it but not sell it."
"Well, yeah, it's a paradox. But come on, you mentioned two activities. What's the other one?"
"Killing a certain type of person. Killing anyone who makes me feel a visceral hatred."
Irene pulled away from me, sat on the mattress, and stared at me intently. She wasn't shocked or scared. Her face was the living reflection of the most intense curiosity. She asked me:
"Have you ever killed anyone?"
"Yes."
"And when are you going to tell me you're joking?"
"Never, because it's not a joke. It's the holy truth."
"How many people have you killed?"
"Fourteen."
"Who were they?"
"Homeless people. Drug addicts. Alcoholics. People who lived poorly. People who existed just because air is free."
Irene suddenly sighed, like she had found immense relief from a great burden. She said:
"I've killed three."
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"My mom's parents and a maid."