The Constructives

Paul and I were intimate when I was in my early 20s. We met at a party, after scrambling into a kitchen to avoid salsa dancing.  We talked.  He was Irish, he liked hiking, and he asked if I would join him in a smoke.  “I don’t do drugs often,” he said, “only socially.”  Paul was a very social man.

He had an affinity for nightlife, though he despised dancing.  It was an air of unsullied dignity, he said.  He had his clothes tailored; his favorite pocket square was zebra print. His movements were subtle but direct.

We would go out for drinks, and he introduced me to the sidecar. Thinking back, it seemed appropriate.  I slipped in vodka martinis when I could.  And we would talk about abstract art or machine parts or traveling.  He introduced me to a new world that I barely managed to escape.  After a night of drinking, he would speak to me in French.

Paul was married to a Uruguayan socialite, though most of her childhood was spent in Barcelona.  She often talked about the political and personal reasons for her displaced childhood.  She spent two years in New York City before she met Paul.  I cannot remember her face, but her breasts I can never forget.  I could see that they aroused Paul, and that aroused me. Once they invited me to their apartment.  I sat in a white armchair while they made love on a carpet in front of me.

The night I met Maria, she was wearing a gown that made her look slim.  It was distracting when she danced; she loved to dance.  Rainbow-hued geometric shapes flitted from one side of her body to the other.  A white block that ran down her right side prevented these colors from passing completely around her.  How long before the white block enveloped her entirely?

…

I had forgotten about Paul and Maria, until yesterday evening.  I was walking home and I saw a flier posted outside of my apartment building.  The art gallery around the corner is having its first opening.  The artist is Uruguayan.  And I think I’ll go.