She said I like men who cook. He said I prefer rich women. She said what is your ideal? He said you with a lot of money. She said how much? He did not deal in quantity. Quantity, he said, was her game.

He called her from the midway with a borrowed dime. She listened again on last week’s time. Painters and poets, he said, was his game. Painters and poets, she said, that’s your pain.

He said cumbia. He said sweet things for seven days. It was his limit. She said silver tea service. Engraved. She said only once. She said she did not like his friends, his neighborhood, his under-shorts on the door, his cockroaches. He said too far to drive.

She said someday. Maybe. Never. She warned him against auditory hallucinations. She mistrusted everything she heard. They both lied constantly. She said let’s go home. Rain. Cold dust. Old age. Infidelity. Engraved silver. He said he would call her from the bar if he had a dime.

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