Free Kiss of the Spider Woman by Manuel Puig

apart.
    —Want me to come closer?
    —Not close, and not apart.
    —Listen, Valentin, I remember very well one time, he traded shifts with another guy to take his wife to the theater.
    —So he’s married?
    —Mmm-hmm, he’s completely straight. I was the one who started it all, he wasn’t to blame for anything. I butted into his life, but I just wanted to help him.
    —How did it all begin?
    —One day I went to a restaurant and saw him there. I was crazy about him right off. But it’s a long story, I’ll tell you some other time, or maybe, no I won’t, I’m not saying anything to you anymore, who knows what you’ll come out with.
    —Just a minute, Molina, you’re really wrong. If I ask about him it’s because I feel somehow . . . how can I explain it?
    —Curiosity, that’s all you feel.
    —That’s not true. I think I have to know more about you, that’s what, in order to understand you better. If we’re going to be in this cell together like this, we ought to understand one another better, and I know very little about people with your type of inclination.
     
*
    —I’ll tell you how it happened then, quickly though, so as not to bore you.
    —What’s his name?
    —No, his name no, that’s for me. No one else.
    —Whatever you like.
    —That’s the only thing of his that I have all to myself, inside me, it’s in my throat, and I keep it down there just for me. I’ll never let it out . . .
    —Have you known him a long time?
    —Three years today, the twelfth of September, the first day I went to the restaurant. But I feel so funny talking about this.
    —Never mind. If you want to talk about it sometime, talk. If not, don’t.
    —Somehow I feel embarrassed.
    —That’s . . . that’s how it is when it comes to really deep feelings, at least I think so.
    —I was just with some friends of mine. Well, actually a couple of harlots, unbearable, the two of them. But cute, and sharp too.
    —Two girls?
    —No, dummy, when I say harlots I mean queens. And so one of them was rather bitchy to the waiter, which was him. I saw from the beginning how handsome he was, but nothing more. Then when my friend got really snotty with him, the guy, without losing his self-control at all, he put her right in her place. I was surprised. Because waiters, poor guys, they always have this complex about being servants, which makes it difficult for them to answer any rudeness, without coming across like the injured servant bit, you get what I mean? Anyway, this guy, nothing doing, he explains to my slutty friend just why the food isn’t up to what it ought to be, but with such finesse, she winds up looking like a complete dope. But don’t get the idea he acted very haughty—not at all, perfectly detached, handled the whole situation. So immediately my nose tells me there’s something unusual, a real man. So the next week this woman heads straight to the same restaurant, but this time alone.
    —What woman?
    —Listen, I’m sorry, but when it comes to him I can’t talk about myself like a man, because I don’t feel like one.
    —Go on.
    —The second time I saw him he looked even cuter, in a white uniform with a Mao collar, it fitted him divinely. Like some movie star or something. Everything about him was perfect, the way he walked, the husky voice, but sometimes a slight lilt to it, kind of tender, I don’t know how to put it. And the way he served! I’m telling you, it was poetry, one time I saw him do a salad, I couldn’t believe! First he sat the customer at a table, because it was a woman, a real dog, and he sets up a little side table next to hers, to put the salad tray down right there, then he asks her, some oil? some vinegar? some of this? some of that? until finally he picks up the wooden fork and spoon and gets right down to mixing the salad, but I don’t know how to explain it, like he caressed the lettuce leaves, and the tomatoes, but nothing softy about it—how can I put it? They were such