The Conversation

"Do you think she'll come back? I ask the stewardess, warm and soft, sitting so close to me that her breasts compress between us. The stewardess didn't say anything, she just looked at me, and I looked at her, and I understood.

"All clean," the girl said when she returned from her brief swim, "now, let's clean you off."

The old man asked me again what I fantasize about. I may have told him any number of things. Who knows what I blurted out? It was all fast-paced and blurred and barbarous. I flew back and forth between the bright sun of my imagination and the dimly lit bar, my eyes never adjusting. The context lost, the setting lost, the mood evaporated, I had no grasp of reality. Blurting out raw sexual acts as if they were whole stories, filled with tension and eroticism. I'd returned full-circle, shouting "tits!" and "cocks!" Monotonously iterating every penile-orificial combination with a debaucherous brute-force algorithm.

I have no idea how much I said aloud. I don't want to know. It would embarrass me horribly.

"Very good, very good," the old man kept saying. "See? We have inspired your honesty and openness. Now, we must work on your poetry." Again, he called over the bartender. This time, he ordered us mezcal.