Talking to Ourselves: A Novel Read Online Free

DON’T LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS
    [
id est:
you’re a prude]                     
     
    YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, AND THEY PROMOTE YOU
YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, AND THEY DON’T PROMOTE YOU
    [
id est:
you’re a slut]                     
     
    YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, THEY PROMOTE YOU, AND YOU SPEND YOUR WHOLE LIFE SHOWING YOUR GRATITUDE TO YOUR MENTOR
YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, THEY PROMOTE YOU, AND YOU DON’T SPEND YOUR WHOLE LIFE SHOWING YOUR GRATITUDE TO YOUR MENTOR
    [
id est:
you’re ungrateful]                     
     
    YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, THEY PROMOTE YOU, YOU SPEND YOUR WHOLE LIFE SHOWING YOUR GRATITUDE TO YOUR MENTOR, AND, VERY
IMPROBABLY, YOU TAKE OVER HIS POST WHEN HE RETIRES
YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, THEY PROMOTE YOU, YOU SPEND YOUR WHOLE LIFE SHOWING YOUR GRATITUDE TO YOUR MENTOR, AND, OF COURSE, YOU RETIRE HAVING NEVER TAKEN OVER HIS POST
    [
id est:
you’re over the hill]                     
    We trust this has not wearied you, esteemed gentlemen of the panel, and that our research will attain, if not your unmerited theoretical approval, then at least your paternal consent to carry on failing. Thank you very much.

    I take my phone out of my bag, I turn it on, look at it, leave it on the table, put it back in my bag, take it out again. I act like a delinquent.
    The first thing I did when I got up was call Mario. It took a while to get hold of him. They seem fine. They are seeing places, enjoying themselves. They sound almost happier without me. When I asked Mario whether he was sleeping eight hours a day like he had promised, he hesitated. I got annoyed and we argued. We fell silent. And then we were tender. Lito tried to explain something to me about the truck and the rain, I couldn’t hear very well, whatever it was it sounded adorable. He told me very excitedly that he had beaten his dad in a race. I asked him to let me speak to Mario again. He promised he hadn’t really run, how could I even think that, didn’t I know the little tyke had an overactiv eimagination. We ended on a happy note. I felt reassured. I busied myself cleaning windows. I did some washing. I boiled vegetables. I read for a while. I prepared the literature exams. I sewed on two buttons. Then I called Ezequiel.
    He asked me if I had thought about our dinner the previous night. I said no. He asked me if I’d had difficulty getting to sleep. I said no. He suggested meeting for coffee this afternoon. I said no. He asked if he could call me tomorrow. I said yes.

    “Hypocrite lecteuse! Ma semblable! Ma soeur!,”
I underline with a highlighter in a manifesto by Margaret Atwood, hypocrisy is a leveller, sisterly hypocrisy, sister hypocrisy, “Let us now praise stupid women,” praise them, praise them!, “who have given us Literature.” Without stupid women, not a single love poem would have ever been written.

    Is Mario jealous? Somewhat. Am I jealous? Not particularly.
    I could just as well have written: Is he jealous? Not really, because he acknowledges it as such. Because he is a man at ease with his jealousy. Like my sister is with hers. She even cultivates it. She regards jealousy as a sign of love.
    And I could as well have written: Am I jealous? Perhaps in a twisted way. Because, although in theory I am less possessive than they are, in fact I am afraid to acknowledge the possessive impulse in myself.
    Is jealousy related to love? It is related: they fight. They probably cancel each other out. Are fantasies related to marriage?They are related: they cohabit. Maybe they are mutually sustaining .

    Not long ago I reached a certain age, how can I define it? an age: that’s all. After which we begin counting it, we become too aware of it. It isn’t a number so much as a kind of