Almost Never: A Novel by Daniel Sada, Katherine Silver

clouds rushing by farther away. Thus he associated the tenuous white streaks with quick stopovers, whereas the woolly wads could represent the exasperation of an uncertain wait. But even if everything went smoothly, we’re talking about a voyage of more than forty-eight hours. Thus his eagerness for the end. The fifteenth. The promise. What would happen when they were face-to-face … It didn’t help Demetrio to anticipate. Anticipation always labors under mistaken superstitions. Reality veers off, and surprises either fade or become monstrosities. So he tried to think about Mireya, her backside. Endless compendiums in her favor, to wit: discipline, the consequences of unhappy restraint, of seeing her only twice a week, explained away by being overburdened by work. He imposed upon himself such abstinence because the wench never stopped talking about how lonely she was, how they’d killed her parents when she was fifteen, how she had nobody in the world to protect her besides the madam and her bodyguards, how love was her only possible salvation. In short: frenetic protestations along with sex; recycled torments, way too much bother for the salacious agronomist, who, although he knew the whole thing reeked of smut, couldn’t help but feel compassion. And love—misbegotten? To give it, to give of oneself with blind sentimentality. Sensuality tempted him; he believed through induction that the wench was sincere, and while both were shedding tears, he came to the verge of the conviction that Mireya would be a magnificent wife and an exemplary mother; but the pressure, the problem that swelled up alongside that faint hope: Wait till I have the down payment on the house. I swear I’ll take you with me when I do. That, memorized word-for-word, had to be repeated more than twenty times to his lover. For his part, he preferred never to utter those words again, for fear of lapsing into irritation. Because the two sentences were constantly making their appearance in his dreams. They seemed to be etched into a rock or howling like an echo in mocking repetition from a distant dismal cave until he’d awake. A nightmare, followed by insomnia’s hangover. Hence the change of strategy: tactful infrequency. A huge relief and the desire to become as well as to be: Mireya, I really love you. Please understand that. I’m just asking you to be patient; or even better: I need only four thousand more pesos for the down payment. I’ll have it in four months; or the ultimate revelation: I know exactly where we’ll build our little love nest. Falsehoods or clever ruses? She couldn’t care less. Or so it seemed because one of the last times he was in her clutches, Mireya put him in check: I want you to take me away from here once and for all. I’ll go anywhere with you. I really love you, Demetrio, and from him: And what about the madam and her bodyguards? Problem. Suspense. Retreat. You’re right, it’s not easy to go up against those people. The breadth of the suspense made any mention of their flight during the final fucks, thanks to the unforgettable fellatios, absent. Demetrio’s triumph coincided with his landing in Nochistlán. The backside sliding out of sight just in time. The same went for one of Doña Rolanda’s evening monologues regarding news of the founding of the Social Services Institute of Mexico. To provide the working class with free medical care. A benevolent government. The basic needs of the poor were beginning to matter, and—how great! She also said that they might soon build a hospital affiliated with this institute in Oaxaca. She read about it in the local newspaper and offered it up excitedly during dinner. As for the news itself—pay heed? believe? For Demetrio there was no news aside from what affected him directly. The world, or to be more precise, the country, or in any case, the trials, tribulations, and triumphs of an abstract Other mattered nothing to him, so he withdrew at that moment to his