Divorce Is in the Air by Gonzalo Torné

always come back to the same little branch of scorched thyme standing out against the white of the plate. Not as white, though, as the “surprise” cake Bicente had ordered, which was precisely what you’d expect from a mind as simple and optimistic and content and good as that of my dear friend from Madrid: icing, our names, the outline of a heart. In the elevator going upstairs we barely looked at each other, victims of a sudden modesty, and Helen noticed me twirling my wedding ring as if it were too tight. I couldn’t even muster an erection when her stockings came off. The night was so rehearsed it was as if I could hear the audience breathing, and I felt the expectations of the entire species weighing on the back of my neck. As you know, if I ever attract the attention of passers-by it’s only because they’ve caught me in a spontaneous outburst of histronics. I’ve never sought out the spotlight.
    “Let’s just keep the party going.”
    And so, rather than nursing my wounded masculinity or relieving my troubles by banging my head against the wardrobe mirror, we caught a taxi to Chueca and hopped from bar to bar drinking gin and tonics, enchanted with our existence. The fabulous couple, the most sociable newlyweds the city had ever seen, rejecting propositions from men, from women, married couples, you name it—even urban centaurs: females from the waist up, males between their legs. And we went back to the bed in that apartment that didn’t feel like ours, but to which we had the key, no small thing. And, half undressed, my ring rolling off into the corner where it took us five days to find it, we undertook the first married variation of the exhilarating, vigorous yoking of love. I won’t go into detail, but I felt pretty good about having married a woman who expressed herself freely, who faced problems head-on without complicated grievances. A woman you could surprise with an embrace from behind and she wouldn’t make you feel like a savage. A woman with whom I didn’t have to temper my occasional fits with doses of timidity just to acclimate to the social temperature in the room. Here was a woman who knew how to laugh out loud, who knew how to shout, a woman who wouldn’t give in, who knew how to fight so we’d be purified inside: she was an innocent beast.
    I was supposed to return the keys to the apartment a week later, but I’d decided to arrange things so we could stay in Madrid. Bicente would help, and so would all those friendly citizens who snack in the streets and always invite you to join them. I knew only too well what awaited me in Barcelona, and I’d gotten married before I could even tell Helen, much less figure out how to handle it. Plus, Helen was no good for Barcelona. She wasn’t like you or the rest of those Eixample show ponies—with your insipid air of contrition and tight buttocks, all of you convinced you’re standing at the top of the podium, from where you can turn in disdain to survey the rest of the world in all its backwardness (oh, that expanse of provincial villages). That night I dozed off convinced that Helen would bow to my superior wisdom, content to let herself be dragged through the steps of a manly dance. I fell asleep satisfied, a man ready to enjoy a marriage underpinned by reason.
    But she was against it. She told me she couldn’t stand the smell of garlic in Madrid, the stench of fried food, all the short, squat guys with their African looks, the hours of raw sun without shade that burned the streets and the buildings: a string of words smeared with American bullshit. Helen had been in Madrid two or three months (I didn’t pay attention to the tally) and she still saw us through a lens of WASPy contempt (though I’d love to hear what a real WASP would have to say about her hips or that Teutonic jaw of hers). No matter where she was in the city she could hear a bull in agony, its saw-like shriek; she saw blood dripping down the walls (that was a good one),