Insomnia Brings Me Back to Her Body Every Night

Tuesday night. The worst day of the week, the one that drags along all the tiredness from Monday with none of the promise of the weekend still in sight. The routine has only just begun, worries are piling up, and that leaves my body exhausted and my head buzzing. When those two things come together, there’s no way to sleep.

I’ve been staring at videos on my phone for half an hour. Something soothes me a little, just enough to let my shoulders unclench, but sleep doesn’t come. It’s after midnight and I have to get up early tomorrow. What the hell is going to make me sleep this time?

I’ve already counted sheep, read thirty pages of a book I don’t even remember, taken a warm shower, and eaten something light. Nothing worked. I’m a man alone. My name is Mateo, I’m thirty-one, and eight months ago I signed the divorce papers.

When I still had her and insomnia hit me, there was only one cure: I’d wake her with kisses and we’d both fall asleep, emptied out, slick with sweat and pressed together. On nights like this I miss her with a rage that embarrasses me. I miss those wide hips, the firm breasts that fit perfectly in my hands, that round, hard ass that moved on its own when she walked.

It’s a contradiction I still can’t quite understand. I hate her for what she did, for the way she left me, for how she shattered everything we’d built. And yet when the room goes silent and the bed feels too big, it’s her I look for in my head. Not just any woman, not some stranger from the internet. Her. Always her.

I can’t believe thinking about her still gets me hard. If she hadn’t turned out to be the woman she was, I’d have her here right now on her knees, finishing what she started. She sucked cock like nobody else. She fucked like she’d studied it for years.

I tug my pants down without really thinking about it. My hand moves on its own, slowly at first, while the image of her on top of me sharpens in the darkness of the room. Damn, you used to move that thing so good, baby. I’m gonna jerk off thinking about you.

***

I remember the first time I had you. We were a couple of horny kids and your parents wouldn’t let you go out even to the corner. The only place they allowed you to stand was in front of your house, on that narrow little porch, next to the gas cylinder and the tank they had shoved against the wall.

We’d been together for months and everything stayed at kisses and hands over clothes. But that night something broke. You slipped your hand inside my pants while you kissed my neck, and I knew you weren’t the shy little girl your parents thought they were protecting anymore. You were wearing a loose dress, knee-length, easy to lift. They knew you were out there, but they didn’t come out.

After so much touching, I couldn’t take it anymore. I slid my hand under your dress and found you drenched, burning, ready. You kept kissing me as if nothing was happening, as if your parents weren’t ten feet away on the other side of the door.

I lifted you without asking up onto an old washing machine they had outside, rusted, creaking under your weight. I spread your legs and went in all at once. You bit my shoulder so you wouldn’t scream.

I took you slowly, very slowly, because any noise would have given us away. If someone passed by on the sidewalk, it looked as if I were hugging you, comforting you about something. No one would have guessed what was happening between us, how slow and deep I was fucking you against that wall.

I could feel every part of you. The trembling of your legs squeezing my waist, the wetness running down the inside of your thigh, your nails digging into my back every time I pushed all the way in. Your eyes were closed and your mouth was half-open, and I looked at you knowing that face was mine alone, that no one else in the world saw you like that.

The cold metal of the washing machine against your thighs, the heat of your body, the smell of gas from the cylinder and your cheap perfume mixing in the night air. I can still smell that combination when I close my eyes. It still drives me crazy.

I open my eyes for a second. The ceiling, the darkness, the fan turning slowly. My hand doesn’t stop. God, remembering gets me hot, bitch. I used to love you so much.

***

That night, against the washing machine, your breathing started getting heavier and I hurried up. I didn’t care about anything. I came inside you, cupping your mouth with my hand so it wouldn’t be heard, but you still let out a cry right when I finished.

I was already far away, walking fast down the sidewalk, before your parents came out. It sounded like a cry of pain, that’s what they thought. I heard them ask what had happened and I heard you lie with a naturalness that at the time struck me as funny: that you’d hit yourself on a corner.

Liar from day one. Just like the last time, when I walked into my own house and found you where I never should have found you.

I stop for a moment, breathing hard. Rage and desire mix in my chest until I don’t know which one is moving my hand. You piss me off so much and I still want you. I still fucking love the way you look, you bitch. It would be so damn good to have you here right now and bury it in you like you liked.

***

That day I was at work and around noon I started feeling sick. I asked permission and left early. I stopped by the florist on the corner and bought a bouquet, one of those big ones, because I wanted to surprise you. My beautiful wife, my hot wife, would come home and find flowers waiting for her.

I climbed the building stairs thinking about how I was going to fuck you that afternoon. But before I even reached the door, I could already hear something. Your moans. I knew them by heart, the same ones you gave me, carrying all the way into the hallway.

And a man panting, repeating your name like a dirty prayer.

—That’s it, Renata... like that, keep going, don’t stop...

I kicked the door open and saw you riding on top of him. Your friend. The one you always brought home, the one you said was harmless, the one who laughed with me while the three of us drank beer. You were on top of him, moving the same way you moved for me.

I couldn’t believe it. I dropped the flowers at the door and felt everything go blurry. I grabbed him by the arm, hauled him up, shoved the two of you out into the hallway naked, not letting either of you speak. I never thought I’d miss you after that. I never thought pain could be felt so much in the body.

That same bed I have empty now was where I found you with him. It took me weeks before I could sleep there again. And when I finally did, it was thinking about you, jerking off like an idiot, hating you and wanting you in the same breath. That’s how I started this habit I still can’t shake.

***

I come back to the room, to the present, to the empty bed that still smells like me and no one else. My hand moves faster now, without rhythm, with that mix of fury and desire that only you know how to provoke in me even though you’re no longer here.

For everything you did to me and for everything you make me miss, tonight I’m dedicating it to you. To your liar’s honor. To those hips, to that mouth, to everything I threw out on the street that afternoon.

I clench my teeth. My whole body tightens. I think of the first time against the washing machine and the last time against the hallway floor, and somehow, in a sick way, the two images become one. Take that, baby... it’s yours... it’s still yours...

I finish with a muffled groan against the pillow, the same way she used to stifle hers so no one would hear. For a second the room goes totally silent, just the fan, just my breathing settling back into place.

I reach to the nightstand and grab a couple of tissues. I wipe myself clean without ceremony. Into the trash, like the paper I just used to wipe you off my body again.

I toss the wad into the bin beside the bed. I pull my pants back up, turn toward the wall, and close my eyes. The rage is gone now, the desire too, and finally only the exhaustion remains, the one I wanted so badly.

Tomorrow I’m going to wake up early exhausted and in a bad mood, like almost every day. But at least tonight, thanks to her memory and my own hand, I’m going to be able to sleep. That’s the only thing she still gives me. And, hard as it is to admit, I still accept it.